THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born near Bath, October 13, 1797-on the same day with Motherwell. He studied at Oxford, intending to take orders; but by the death of his father, a solicitor, he inherited a fortune, and he gave up his purpose of entering the church. He had a talent for song-writing, and became a favorite in fashionable society. After the loss of his fortune in 1831 this talent was used as a means of support; but adversity was not so favorable to the production of his summer-day songs as prosperity had been, and he became disheartened, and died, April 22, 1839. He was the author of several novels of no great merit, thirty-six dramas, and

hundreds of songs. Many of the latter-notably "I'd be a Butterfly," "Oh no, we never mention Her," "Isle of Beauty, Fare Thee Well," and "We met, 'twas in a Crowd"— enjoyed an immense popularity. Some of them were set to music by himself, and some by Sir Henry Bishop. He published "Melodies of Various Nations," "Parliamentary Letters and other Poems," and "Deeds of Witchery," which was also a volume of poems. After his death his widow published a collected edition of his poems, in two volumes, with a biographical sketch. He was a genial, amiable man, rather delicate physically, with no great force of character.

She will not frown, for frowns would say That she had watched for his return; She will not smile-it would betray

She saw him not with unconcern.

Oh! should he ever come, no trace
Of weak emotion shall appear;
She'll seem, while gazing on his face,
Unconscious that he stands so near.

No blush shall mantle on her cheek,
No tear shall tremble in her eye;
To some young stranger she will speak,
And seem engrossed by his reply.

And thinking thus, she proudly leans Against the marble balustrade: Come when he may, she never means To raise her eyes, or turn her head!

Lady, most beautiful thou art,

And pride becomes thee 'mid the crowd: But oh with him who wins thy heart, Thou'rt fond-weak-any thing but proud.

Resentment when he leaves her side,

Betrays the depth of woman's love; And when she prattles of her pride,

What but her weakness does she prove?

Why starts she now? why turns her head With such a glance of gay delight? Alas! forgetting all she said,

She smiles the moment he's in sight!

The weary watcher can command

No word to wound, no frown to chill; The silent pressure of her hand Assures him he is welcome still.

THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE.

I DARE thee to forget me!

Go wander where thou wilt;

Thy hand upon the vessel's helm,
Or on the sabre's hilt;

Away! thou'rt free! o'er land and sea
Go rush to danger's brink!

But oh, thou canst not fly from thought! Thy curse will be-to think!

Remember me! remember all,
My long-enduring love,
That linked itself to perfidy;
The vulture and the dove!
Remember in thy utmost need,
I never once did shrink,
But clung to thee confidingly;

Thy curse shall be-to think!

Then go ! that thought will render thee
A dastard in the fight;

That thought, when thou art tempest-tossed,
Will fill thee with affright!

In some wild dungeon mayst thou lie,
And, counting each cold link
That binds thee to captivity,

Thy curse shall be-to think!

Go seek the merry banquet-hail,
Where younger maidens bloom,

The thought of me shall make thee there
Endure a deeper gloom;

That thought shall turn the festive cup

To poison while you drink,

And while false smiles are on thy cheek,
Thy curse will be-to think!

Forget me, false one! hope it not !
When minstrels touch the string-
The memory of other days

Will gall thee while they sing:
The airs I used to love will make
Thy coward conscience shrink,
Ay, every note will have its sting-
Thy curse will be-to think!

Forget me! No, that shall not be!
I'll haunt thee in thy sleep,
In dreams thou'lt cling to slimy rocks
That overhang the deep;
Thou'lt shriek for aid! my feeble arm
Shall hurl thee from the brink,

And when thou wak'st in wild dismay,
Thy curse will be-to think!

THE PILOT.

Он, pilot! 'tis a fearful night,
There's danger on the deep,
I'll come and pace the deck with thee,
I do not dare to sleep.

Go down the sailor cried, go down,
This is no place for thee,
Fear not; but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayst be.