THE NORTHERN STAR. WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND. THE Northern Star Sailed o'er the Bar, Bound to the Baltic Sea: In the morning gray She stretched away 'Twas a weary day to me. 'And many an hour, In sleet and shower, By the light-house rock I stray, And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that's far way. 'The Church-yard's bound I wander round, Among the grassy graves; But all I hear Is the North wind drear, And all I see, the waves!' Oh roam not there, Thou mourner fair, Nor pour the fruitless tear! Thy plaint of wo Is all too low The dead, they cannot hear. The Northern Star Is set afar, Set in the raging sea; And the billows spread O'er the sandy bed, That holds thy love from thee! Newcastle Courant. THE INCOGNITA. WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. UPON her cheek the eye may trace That wins and then detains the sight. And all the warring fears that wring On her smooth brow her chestnut hair From those rich tresses to the view Within its pupil works a spell Which fills the mind, we know not why, With scenes on which our thoughts would dwell We gaze and grieve, and still we gaze, Upon that soul-appealing token; And mourn, that Time can never raise Leeds Intelligencer. B. B. W. TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. BY MRS. HEMANS. CREATURE of air and light! To chase the south-wind through the sunny sky? With Silence and Decay, Fixed on the wreck of dull Mortality? The thoughts once chambered there, They that have burst the prison-house are flown? If thou wouldst trace their way !- Earth has no voice to make the secret known. Who seeks the vanished bird, By the forsaken nest and broken shell? Yet free and joyous 'midst the woods to dwell. Take the bright wings of morn !- Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruined cell. WHERE IS HE? BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. 'Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?' "AND where is he?" Not by the side Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend! That form beloved he marks no more; Those scenes admired no more shall see ;Those scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair,--but where is he? No, no, the radiance is not dim, That used to gild his favourite hill; His was the pomp, the crowded hall! Desire could frame--but where are they? Seemed proudly strong,--and where is he? The church-yard bears an added stone, The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone, And death displays his banner there; The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been, no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he? New European Magazine. THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, The King has come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, King.' 'An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,— For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din, |