For frozen was the stream of song,
And cold and lifeless on my tongue
The broken accents died.

Sweet spirit, wherefore thus unkind?
Has sickness o'er my palsied mind
Its spell of torpor cast?

Or cares, that on the bosom prey,
And steal the powers of youth away,
Ere youth itself is past?

Or has monastic solitude>
With its own sluggishness imbued
A mind once wont to soar?
Or has dear woman ceased to be
The precious thing she was to me,
In happy days of yore?

Oh, no! though solitude, and care,
And pain, in me have had their share,

They cannot rend apart

The chord of feeling that replies

To woman's smile, and voice, and eyes,-
The chord within the heart.

Nor think, whate'er the heartless deem,
That woman e'er to bard can seem

A theme of little worth:

All things of glory or delight

In nature, are the poet's right,
His heritage by birth.

The clouds, the stars, the meek-eyed moon,

The splendours of the summer noon,

The stream, the flower, are his;

Man's regal front-the mystery
Of beauty in an infant's eye—
And woman's loveliness.

Whate'er is grand, or soft, or fair,
To him is as the stirring air,

That wakes the leaves from sleep: But woman's charm has stronger power, To pierce his spirit's inmost bower, And search its riches deep.

Touch'd by the spell, his brain runs o'er With fancies never known before ;

He feels within him rise

Powers, from himself erewhile conceal'd,

And wantons in the joyous field

Of new-born energies.

Then, lady, if my feeble song

Speaks of a mind opprest,

Thou wilt forgive the unwilling wrong

Done to a theme so blest.

Join'd in the bonds of that sweet tie
Whose thraldom is true liberty,

With him thou lovest best,

May death but snap the chain of love

To bind its links more firm above!

WOMAN'S LOVE.

Thou know'st it not-that calm bright eye
Emits no flash when I am by ;

The conscious love that closes mine

Can wake no answering thought in thine:
Yet, dear one! I have loved thee ever,
And thou, alas! wilt love me never.

The speaking smiles I loved to trace
That lightly wreathe that perfect face,
And on that lip of beauty dwell,
Though not on me their brightness fell,
But on some page with interest fraught,
That waked so sweet a beam of thought;

Thou know'st not, that to treasure this
Is all my bosom's secret bliss ;
That when thy graceful form is near,
Thy full soft voice upon my ear,
The world is as it had not been,
For thou alone art heard and seen.

Thou know'st it not-and I can bear

This silent grief without a tear;

But oh! when thy kind hand has press'd

My own, and friendship's warmth express'd,
Then, to what trembling sad excess

I felt that hopeless tenderness!

And I have felt the sharpest pang
To see thine eye enamour'd hang
On one dear form, one lovely face,
And watch their sweet unstudied grace:
'Twas but a passing pang-for she
Was form'd by Heaven for love and thee.

E. H.

And could my offer'd life but shed
One blessing on her favour'd head,
And amaranthine blossoms raise
To crown young love's delightful days;
The sun that made your way so bright
Would bless my death-bed with its light.
And thou wilt never know how deep
Within my heart such love can sleep,
And never from those eyes so dear
Will fall, for me, love's precious tear,
No-not to dew the flowers that wave
Their pallid blossoms o'er my grave.

THE HOUR OF EXPECTATION.

H. W.

He comes not-He, whose sunny eye
Lights the lone temple of my breast
With lamps of love, that never die ;

There does his precious image rest,

Alone-adored; there go, sad thoughts, the while,
And brood on his sweet voice, and live upon his smile.

He comes not-and my anxious ear
Hangs fondly on each fancied sound;
I try to catch those accents dear,
But ah! my listening heart can hear
Only its own impatient bound;

Or try to still its throbs with thoughts of thee,

And those sweet words of love so lately breathed to me.

He comes not, this devoted hour,

When every thought was his alone;

When Love had dress'd sweet Fancy's bower,

And only his bright planet shone,

And many a tender word was framed to greet
His eager glance of welcome, kind and sweet.

And shall not this fond eye grow dim
With one soft tear for his distress?
Shall not this loving heart for him
Find blessings in the wilderness?
Yes! ev'n in this sad hour, sweet sympathy
Of mutual grief our parted souls shall tie.

Yes, my own love! this lingering hour
Hath borne an equal pang for thee,
And many a thorn surrounds the flower
Of constancy thou wear'st for me;

Yet bear its leaves of love some drops of balm,

Our changeless faith to bless-our troubled hearts to calm.

Soon shalt thou chase the trembling tear
That rises from my heart for thee,

Thy voice of music soft and clear

Shall whisper love's dear vow to me,

And fear's dim cloud shall pass, and sorrow's shower,
Beneath the sunbeam of that meeting hour.

In vain, till then, my restless sight
The brightest page of genius seeks,
Unless it yield some touching light

Of love, that on my darkness breaks;
And fancy, truth, and wisdom, are to me

As nought, but when they wake some tender thought of thee.

Thou com'st not now-but soon that eye

With love's own glance will answer mine,
And these distracting thoughts will die

In one endearing smile of thine;

And the dull pain of long-deferred bliss

Be lost in Love's embrace-his dear and welcome kiss!

H. W.

A RECOLLECTION FROM MY TRAVELS.

LEONORA.

POOR Alonzo! he was the best friend that ever drank Xeres: he picked me out of the Guadalquivir, when I deemed I had said my last prayer.

It was a very conciliating introduction. I never in my life made a friend of a man to whom I was introduced in a formal kind of way, with bows from both parties, and cordiality from neither. I love something more stirring, more animated; the river of life is at best but a quiet stupid stream, and I want an occasional pebble to ruffle its surface withal. The most agreeable introductions that ever fell to my lot were these ;— my introduction to Pendragon, who was overturned with me in the York Mail;-my introduction to Eliza, who contrived to faint in my arms on board the Albion packet;-and my introduction to Alonzo, who picked me out of the Guadalquivir.

I was strolling beside it on a fine moonlight night, after a brilliant and fatiguing party, at which the Lady Isidora had made ten conquests, and Don Pedro had told twenty stories:" I was tired to death of dancing and iced waters, glaring lights