BY BARRY CORNWALL. I LOVE thee, Ibla!-Thou art bright But the snow is poor, and withers soon, While thou art firm and rich-in hope; And never (like thine) from the face of the moon Flamed the dark eye of the Antelope. Fine is thy shape as the Erak's bough, But the bough of the Erak in winter dies, Thy shape is as fine when the summer flies, Thy hair is black as the starless sky, And clasps thy neck as it loved its home; Yet it moves at the sound of thy faintest sigh, Like the snake that lies on the white sea-foam. Farewell! Farewell!-Yet of thee, sweet maid, And when I return, with a Chieftain's name, And many a plundered gem for thee, I'll ask thee, then to share my fame For all love's sweet eternity. Literary Gazette. FROM REAL LIFE. AT length her griefs have drawn the lines of care Perchance the casual undiscerning gaze But few among the selfish,—busy,—gay,— A face that holds no lure,-no tribute seeks,— Demands no homage,-nothing strange bespeaks ;— That looks as hundreds looked that they have known, Just marked enough to call some name its own. O, few in folly's course can check their speed, The simple lines of character to read! Or if they pause, the rude unfeeling eye, The cold enquiry-contumelious sigh, And all the world's gross pity can impart, Are caustic to the festers of the heart. Leeds Intelligencer. EL HYPONDRIACO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. Go to thy rest, thou sullen Sun, Obscure ere half its course be done, All that I loved, my pencil, pen, That stole the time on downy wings, When shall I feel your charm again Where is thy balm of care, O Sleep, I plunge in ocean,-shoot through air,— New Times. M BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. HARK to the knell! It comes in the swell Of the stormy ocean wave. "Tis no earthly sound, But a toll profound From the Mariner's deep sea grave. When the billows dash, And the signals flash, And the thunder is on the gale; And the Ocean is white In its own wild light, Deadly, and dismal, and pale; When the lightning's blaze Smites the seaman's gaze, And the sea rolls in fire and in foam; And the surges' roar Shakes the rocky shore, We hear the sea-knell come. There 'neath the billow, The sand their pillow, Ten thousand men lie low; And still their dirge Is sung by the surge, When the stormy night-winds blow. Sleep, warriors! sleep On your pillow deep In peace ! for no mortal care― No art can deceive, No anguish can heave The heart that once slumbers there. New Times. A NIGHT STORM, AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF SNOWDON. 'Tis eve! The sun's last rays are glimmering still On Snowdon's crested summit, and around His granite rocks flows the deep bosomed rill In solitude and loveliness. Its sound, As with an angel voice, of peace profound Whispers to Heaven; and see-the sultry fires Of day more faintly yon deep crags surround; Slowly even now each western beam retires,— Fades,-lightens o'er the wave, and with a smile expires. Night, utter night succeeds.-Above-below Weighs heavy on my heart, the bird of night The note of woe is hushed; peace reigns around Heaven smiles on earth again-the glimmering star |