Thine, too, other gifts above, Literary Gazette. L. E. L. COMPARISON. BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER. I SAW the wild rose on its parent thorn, Half-closed, soft blushing through the glittering dew, Wave in the breeze and scent the breath of morn, Lelia, the lovely flower resembled you. Scarce had it spread to meet the orb of day, So torn by wild and lawless Passion's force PURE element of waters, wheresoe'er Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants, And, through the sunny portion of the year, Of central earth, where tortured spirits pine For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt II. MALHAM COVE. Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, When giants scooped from out the rocky ground Oh! had the Crescent stretched its horns, and wound, No mightier work had gained the plausive smile Of all-beholding Phœbus! but, alas! Vain earth! false world! Foundations must be laid III.-GORDALE. At early dawn, or when the warmer air And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn And force their passage toward the salt sea tides. FRAGMENT. LOVE once dwelt in a palmy isle, Whose guardian was a dark-eyed Maid. They lived in sweet companionship: To watch his chain, to keep it light. But once the Nymph lay down to sleep, Leaving her fragrant chain undone; And Love awakened while she slept, Shook off his fetters, and was gone. Literary Gazette. L. E. L. HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. BY MRS. HEMANS. Henry I. (after the loss of Prince William) entertained hopes, for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when certain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away; and it was remarked, that he never afterwards was seen to smile, nor ever recovered his wonted cheerfulness. THE bark that held a Prince went down, And what was England's glorious crown He lived-for life may long be borne HUME. Why comes not death to those that mourn ?— He never smiled again! There stood proud forms around his throne, But which could fill the place of one, But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair, He sat where festal bowls went round, A murmur of the restless deep Seemed blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep- Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace And strangers took the kinsman's place Graves, which true love had washed with tears STANZAS BY LORD BYRON. AND Wilt thou weep when I am low? My heart is sad!-my hopes are gone!— Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a beam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And, for a while my sorrows cease To know that heart hath felt for mine! O Lady! blessed be that tear, It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tears may steep. Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm Then wilt thou weep when I am low? Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so; New Monthly Magazine. |