THE TEAR.

MOORE.

On beds of snow the moon-beam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept

Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gush'd; the wintry air

Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : All night it lay an ice-drop there,

At morn it glitter'd in the ray.

An Angel, wand'ring from her sphere,

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,

And hung it on her diadem!

ON THROWING AWAY A FLOWER.

ANONYMOUS.

Sweet Flower, which now I cast away,

Alas! to wither and to die, Thee for thy sweets I would repay, Thou beauty of a summer's day,

And sing thine elegy.

Sweet daughter of the aged year,

Which from thy stem my hand did sever, To taste and feeling thou art dear, And claim'st the tribute of a tear,

Before we part for ever.

For ever!-what a volume lies

Within those simple words alone ! How we regret, how dearly prize What once was trifling in our eyes,

When 'tis for ever flown!

And lovely peep'd amid the green

Thy modest head, sweet innocent ! Like some fair maid, the village queen, Thy simple beauties bloom'd unseen,

In calm, secure content.

And many a kiss has been imprest

Upon thy young and modest charms : The bee has nestled in thy breast ; The fairy oft has been thy guest,

And slept within thine arms.

Yet thee my thoughtless hand has tom

From home and happiness away,
And, for a moment to be worn,
Thus thou art doom'd to siuk forlorn

In premature decay.

Alas! the hapless village maid,

Once fair as thou in youthful bloom, Now victim of her beauty made, May view in thee ber life portray'd,

And envy thee thy tomb.

And man! what is he but a flower ?

The vernal morn beholds him rise; He blooms a short uncertain hour, Till, blasted by death's with’ring power,

He in the evening dies.

Farewell, sweet flower ! here peaceful lie,

Beneath this aged willow sleep:
The evening breeze shall o'er thee sigh ;
Perhaps thy fairy, passing by,

Shall o'er thy ashes weep.

And, oh! when low is laid my head,

When death the vital thread shall sever, Shall the sad Muse then mourn me dead? Shall Friendship's tear for me be shed ? And will it with a sigh be said,

That I am gone for ever?

FROM SCENES OF INFANCY.

DR JOHN LEYDEN.

SWEET scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the soften'd light of summer skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise !
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling

prime,
By absence hallow'd, and endear’d by time;
To lose amid your winding dells the past :-
Ah! must I think this ling'ring look the last ?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How oft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were

new! Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm, And every op'ning grace had power to charm; While, as each scene in living lustre rose, Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.

Ev'n as I muse, my former life returns,
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,
I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream.
The crisping rays, that on the waters lie,
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through th' inverted alder boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.

On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more, Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour ; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young: And those who tread with boly feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound; When river breezes wave their dewy wings, And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.

*

As every prospect opens on my view, I seem to live departed years anew; When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child, Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd; The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew, The wild-brier rose, of pale and blushful hue, The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown, The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round, That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.

Again I view the cairn, and moss-gray stone,
Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone,
And vex with curious toil mine infant eye,
To count the gems that stud the nightly sky;
Or think, as playful fancy wander'd far,
How sweet it were to dance from star to star!

Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd, To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clam'rous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil, At summer eve become the woodman's spoil.

Sweet scenes ! conjoin'd with all that most

endears The cloudless morning of my tender years; With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er, And wand'ring feel myself the child no more: Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same; But sad the tear which lost affections claim.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

MOORE.

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow

Of her he loves
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far,
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,

In this dark hour,
Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stol'n, beneath the evening-star,
To Julia's bower.

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