With a wild fit of laughter the sense of woe scoffing,
Ah many a day to the sea-beach she stray'd,
And fancied each ship, in the dim, distant offing,
Brought the youth so belov'd by the poor Village
Maid.

One morn as she sate weaving garlands of willow,
And resting her arm on yon cliff, her hard pillow,
Ah! prone to her feet rush'd an high-curling billow,
And bore to her grave the poor craz'd Village Maid!

SERENADE.

Ir lock'd in soft and sweet repose

(The balm which Heaven assigns to woc,) Thy soul ideal pleasure knows,

And gentle passions calmly glow,

Still, still entranc'd in slumber lie,
Till morn invades the eastern sky.

But if contending passions tear

That bosom form'd for love alone; If haggard Grief, and wild Despair, Torment thee with fictitious moan; O quit the scene of misery,

And wake, dear maid, to love and me.

J. E. HARWOOD.

ODE.

FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.

BY J. M. GOOD, ESQ.

I HAVE felt the sweet tortures of love,
Yet ask me not these to declare;
Now the poison of absence I prove,
Yet ask me not this to declare.

I have ransack'd the world through each part,
And at length have selected my fair;
From each bosom she steals every heart,
But her name-ask me not to declare.

Her light footsteps, wherever she go,
With her ringlets perfuming the air,
From my eyes tears of joy overflow ;-
'Tis a joy-ask me not to declare;

No later than yesterday night,

From her mouth, with which none can compare,

I heard words of transcendant delight—

Yet those words-ask me not to declare.

But why bite those lips? Why with hint
My fidelity question, unfair?
Yes-her red ruby lips did I print,

But her name-will I never declare.

Maid beloved! without thee, while alone
In this cot doom'd existence to bear,
Thro' each moment of absence I moan
With a grief—ask me not to declare.

Thus at length behold Hafiz, whose song
Has so frequently flow'd void of care,
Whirl'd by Love's tender passion along
With a force-ask me not to declare.

SONG

FROM MOLIERE.

SING then, sweet, birds! the woods among;
Sing, warblers sing, nor cease your song!
But with the harmonious sound,

Awake alternate in these shades
Each echo, while the distant glades
The thrilling notes rebound:

Yet, did you feel like me the pangs of love,
No more your dulcet song would fill the vocal grove.

THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM.

AN ODE.

BY DR. DARWIN.

"I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

DULL Atheist! could a giddy dance
Of atoms lawless hurl'd,
Construct so wonderful, so wise,
So harmoniz'd a world?

Why do not Arabes driving sands,
The sport of every storm,
Fair freighted fleets, the child of chance,
Or gorgeous temples form?

Presumptuous wretch! thyself survey,

That lesser fabrick scan;

Tell me from whence th' immortal dust,
The god, the reptile man?

Where wast thou, when this populous earth,

From chaos burst its way,

When stars exulting sung the morn,

And hail'd the new-born day?

What, when the embryo speck of life,
The miniature of man,

Nurs'd in the womb, its slender form
To stretch and swell began ?

Say, didst thou warp the fibre woof?
Or mould the sentient brain ?
Thy fingers stretch the living nerve?
Or fill the purple vein ?

Didst thou then bid the bounding heart
Its endless toil begin ?

Or clothe in flesh the hardening bone, Or weave the silken skin?

Who bids the babe to catch the breeze,
Expand its panting breast;

And with impatient hands untaught,
The milky rill arrest ?

Or who with unextinguish'd love
The mother's bosom warms,
Along the rugged paths of life

To bear it in her arms?

A God! a God! the wide earth shouts,
A God! the heavens reply ;

He moulded in his palm the world,
And hung it in the sky.

Let us make man!-With beauty clad,
And health in every vein;

And reason thron'd upon his brow,

Stepp'd forth majestic man.