Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed

Round misery's brim.

Yes-he can smile serene at death;

Kind heaven! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

THERE'S NOT A LOOK, A WORD OF THINE.

THERE's not a look, a word of thine
My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine
Which I remember not;

There never yet a murmur fell

From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,

Like something heaven had sung !

Ah! that I could, at once, forget
"All, all that haunts me so-

And yet, thou witching girl!-and yet,
To die were sweeter, than to let
The lov'd remembrance go!

No; if this slighted heart must seo
Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh! let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
Consum'd in sweets away!

TO THE FIRE-FLY.*

THIS morning, when the earth and sky
Were burning with the blush of spring,
I saw thee not, thou humble fly!

Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing,

But now the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,
I see thee, and I bless thee too

For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment. "Puis ces mouches se developpant de l'oscurité de ces arbres et s'approchant de nous, nous les voyious sur les orangers voisins, qu'ils mettoient tout en feu, nous rendant la vue de leurs beaux fruits dorés que la nuit avoit ravie, &c. &c." See L'Histoire des Antilles, Art. 2. Chap. 4. Liv. 1.

Oh! let me hope that thus for me,
When life and love shall lose their bloom,
Some milder joys may come, like thee
To light, if not to warm, the gloom!

THE WREATH YOU WOVE.

THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Is fair-but oh! how fair,

If pity's hand had stol'n from love
One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems from dew-drops fall,
One faded leaf, where love had sigh'd,
Were sweetly worth them all!

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Our emblem well may be;

Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love
Must keep its tears from me!

GO THEN, IF SHE WHOSE SHADE THOU ART.

Go then, if she whose shade thou art
No more will let thee soothe my pain-
Yet tell her, it has cost this heart

Some pangs, to give thee back again!

Tell her, the smile was not so dear,

With which she made thy semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear,

With which I now the gift resign!

Yet go-and could she still restore,
As some exchange for taking thee,
The tranquil look which first I wore,
When her eyes found me wild and free;

Could she give back the careless flow,
The spirit which my fancy knew-
Yet, ah! 'tis vain-go, picture, go-
Smile at me once, and then-adieu!

THAT WRINKLE, WHEN FIRST I ESPIED IT.

THAT Wrinkle, when first I espied it,
At once put my heart out of pain,
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
Disturb'd my ideas again!

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
When woman's declension begins,
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
She bids a good night to her sins!

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sun-set of thee,

Than bask in the noon of another!

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars kept time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the day-light's past!