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BY BARRY CORNWALL.

I LOVE thee, Ibla!-Thou art bright
As the white snow on the hills afar
Thy face is sweet as the moon by night,
And thine eye like the clear and rolling star.

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,
And thy bosom a heaven-or, haplier, meant
(If man may guess, who crawls below,)
By Heaven for Earth's enchantment.

But the bough of the Erak in winter dies,
And the Heaven hath clouds that dim its blue;

Thy shape is as fine when the summer flies,
And thy bosom is warm and cloudless too.

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,
I'll sing in the wild woods far away;
And I'll bear thy name on my shining blade,
Flower of my own Arabia!

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
Across her brow, and sketched her story there;
And years of keenest suffering dried the stream
That lent her youthful eye its liquid beam.
A mild composure to its glance succeeds;
Her gayest look still speaks of widow's weeds;
Her smile is one of patience, not of ease,
An effort made to cover, not to please;
While grief, with thorny pencil, day by day,
In silence, delves the flagging cheek away,—
Chases the bloom that peaceful thoughts bestow,
To spread instead the sallow tints of woe;
And where the magic dimple used to start
In early wrinkles, writes a broken heart!

Perchance the casual undiscerning gaze
That never read a history in a face,
In the gay circle might suppose her gay,
Nor mark the nascent traces of decay;
But oh, to those whose nicer feelings take
The fine impression that a look can make,—
Who, skilled by sorrows of their own, descry
The prisoned secret speaking in the eye,-
(As weeping captives at their windows pine)
To them there is a voice in every line!
The brow, by effort raised, to seem serene;
Round every smile the circling wrinkle seen;
The sullen cloud that comes to pass away,
Chased by a cheerless struggle to be gay;
At certain words or names the quick short sigh,
And when neglected long the absent eye,
That seems on images long past to fall,
Unconscious of aught else—will tell them all!

But few among the selfish,—busy,—gay,—
Permit a quiet face to stop their way;

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,
An emblem of my weary mind,

Obscure ere half its course be done,
While Night, long Night, remains behind.

All that I loved, my pencil, pen,

That stole the time on downy wings,

When shall I feel your charm again
Farewell! ye past, ye pleasant things.

Where is thy balm of care, O Sleep,
That once upon my eyelids lay?
Now, if a slumber on me creep,
The night is wilder than the day.

I plunge in ocean,-shoot through air,—
Parch in the desert!-fly the den,—
See horrors,-wake in struggling prayer ;—
And Midnight is twice Midnight then.

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
All deepens slowly in one blackening gloom;
Dark are the Heavens, as is the front of woe,—
Dark as the mountain prospects, as the tomb.
Even as I slow descend, a fearful doom

Weighs heavy on my heart, the bird of night
Screams from her straw-built nest as from the womb
Of infant death, and wheels her drowsy flight,
Amid the pine-clad rocks, with wonder and affright.

The note of woe is hushed; peace reigns around
In utter solitude; the night breeze dies
Faint on the mountain ash-leaves that surround
Snowdon's dark peaks. But hark! again the cries
Of the scared owl, loud hymning to the skies
Her tale of desolation! Fearfully
Night lengthens out the note;-the echo flies
From rock to rock; now whispering shrilly by-
Now in the distance softened, lingering mournfully.

Heaven smiles on earth again-the glimmering star
Pours in mild lustre down his full-orbed light;
And see, his mistress in her burnished car
Beams on the view!-At the refulgent sight
The clouds sail by in homage, and the night

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