Thy fair hands folded with a queenly grace;
Thy cheek soft blushing like the rose in June.

Thine eyelid gently drooping o'er an eye

Whose chastened light bespeaks the soul within; Lips full of sweetness; maiden modesty,

That awes the bosoms it hath deigned to win.

There stand for aye; defying Time or Care

To make thee seem less beautiful than now; Years cannot thin that darkly-flowing hair,

Nor grief indent thy pure and polished brow.

Whilst unto her from whom those lines had birth,
A briefer span but brighter doom is given;
To wane and wither like a thing of earth,
And only know immortal bloom in heaven.

TO CAROLINE BOWLES.

NOW MRS. SOUTHEY.

I KNOW thee only in thy page

Of simplest truth, by taste refined;—
But though I ne'er have seen thy face,

Not seldom, do I love to trace

The features of thy mind!

Pure as the calm, sequestered stream,

That winds its way through flowers and fern;

TO CAROLINE BOWLES.

Now gliding here, now wandering there,
Diffusing coolness everywhere,
Refreshing all in turn:-

So do thy strains, serene and sweet,

Well from their calm, untroubled shrine;
Winning their way from heart to heart,
And healing many a mourner's smart,
With balsam, half divine!

What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand,
I see thee oft in Fancy's glass;
"Edwin" and "Ranger" in thy train,
Pacing across the village plain,

The "Broken Bridge" to pass.

And mark thy devious footsteps threading
The "Churchyard's" green and grassy rise:
Now, stopping by some fresh-made grave,
News of the timeless dead to crave,

To make the living wise.

Or by the "open casement sitting,"

With "autumn's latest flowers" before thee;

Drinking thy "Birdie's" merry notes,
Or tracking the sun as he proudly floats
To his haven of rest and glory.

And when gray Twilight weaves her web,
And the sounds of day-life melt away;
In thy "garden-plot" I see thee stand,
Watching the "night-stock's" leaves expand,
Or framing some soothing lay.

53

Some low, sweet dirge, of softest power
To stir the bosom's inmost strings;-
When friends departed, pleasures fled,
Or a sinless infant's dying bed,
Are the themes thy fancy brings.

Oh! much I love to steal away

From garish strains, that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine, And pause, o'er each wildly-witching line, Till my tears, unbidden, start.

For thou hast ever been to me

A gentle monitor and friend;And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong, That solace while they mend.

Hence, have I sought in simple phrase,
To give my gratitude a tongue;
And if one stricken heart I bring,
For comfort, to the self-same spring,
Not vainly have I sung.

Adieu! We ne'er may meet on earth,
Yet I feel I know thee passing well;-
And when a pensive face I see,
Fair as my cherished thoughts of thee,
I'll deem it thine-FAREWELL!

THE NAMELESS TOAST.

55

A WITHERED ROSE.

IN A VOLUME OF UNPUBLISHED POEMS, BY MISS G. F. ROSS.

NAY, do not touch that faded flower,

Albeit both scent and hue have flown,
For it may still retain a power

Some gentle heart may joy to own:
Hidden beneath each withered leaf,
A chastening spell, to memory dear;
May yield that burthened heart relief,
When HOPE itself is sere.

There let it lie, 'mid records sweet,
By feeling prompted, genius graced ;
Type of their fate, memorial meet

Of "young affections run to waste!"
Left on their stem-how fugitive-

Those cherished leaves had soon been shed;

But thus embalmed, will seem to live,

Till MEMORY's self be dead!

THE NAMELESS TOAST.

HEALTH to ONE whose cherished name,
'Twere a mockery here to tell;

Jocund friends forbear to blame,
If I keep my secret well!
Not when revelry grows loud,
And the jest and song abound,-
To a holier worship vowed,-
Would I whisper such a sound!

'Tis not incense offered to her,
In my hours of heartless mirth;
But a homage deeper, truer,

That may best beseem her worth;
Yet the toast I will not pass,

In my heart of hearts I'll think it ;-
Fill me then a brimming glass,

And to HER I LOVE I'll drink it!

THE RETURN FROM INDIA.

"But when returned the youth? The youth no more
Returned exulting to his native shore;

But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man."

CRABBE.

THE haunts of my boyhood are gleaming around me,
All bright in the sunshine that graced them of yore;
But where are the heart-cherished hopes that have bound me
Through the changes of years to this fondly loved shore?
Can the riches of earth, that like curses surround me,
Life's young dream of delight to my longings restore?

The same summer landscape beside me is smiling;
The same summer ocean before me is spread;