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Yet trace these faded lines; for they impart
A tale, may do your careless bosoms good!
Muse o'er the fragments of a mighty heart,
Broken by sorrow,-ye whose jocund mood,
Insatiate feeds on pleasure's tempting food;
Look here! It will not harm ye, though your thought
Leave its gay flight to melt in pity's flood!.

To each light heart, home be the lesson brought, With what enduring bliss the world's fair smile is fraught!

And is this all? No ;-ye may learn beside,
That all, which fate can threaten may be borne;
To see life's blessings, one by one, subside,
Its wild extremes from tenderness to scorn,
But as the changes of an April morn!
For still she was a Queen!-and majesty
Survived, though she, deserted and forlorn,

Save Heaven,had ne'er a friend to lift her eye;- [die! But Heaven returned the glance, and taught her how to Poems edited by Miss Baillie.

SONNET.

CHOSEN of thee, henceforth I consecrate
Whate'er of life remains to soothe thy grief;
And I will weep with thee like a fond mate,
With tears to sorrow ministering relief:-
And, if it please thee, I will change the measure
To joy-and playfully I'll while away

Thy care, and bid a sunny smile to play

Upon thy cheek, suffused once more with pleasure :—
I'll ever watch thine unconfessed desires,
Fondly to do their import—and I'll blend
The varied duties, as thy mood requires,
Of wife, or mistress, sister, servant, friend-
This this I'll do-and in thine arms resign
All other glory, save-that thou art mine!—

C.

STANZAS TO AN OLD FRIEND.

COME, here's a health to thee and thine!
Trust me, whate'er we may be told,
Few things are better than old wine,
When tasted with a friend that's old.
We're happy yet; and, in our track
New pleasures if we may not find,
There is a charm in looking back
On sunny prospects left behind.

Like that famed hill in western clime,
Through gaudy noontide dark and bare,
That tinges still, at vesper time,

With purple gleam the evening air;

So there's a joy in former days,

In times, and scenes, and thoughts gone by, As beautiful their heads they raise,

Bright in Imagination's sky.

Time's glass is filled with varied sand,
With fleeting joy and transient grief;
We'll turn, and with no sparing hand,
O'er many a strange fantastic leaf;
And fear not-but, 'mid many a blot,

There are some pages written fair,
And flowers that time can wither not,
Preserved, still faintly fragrant there.

As the hushed night glides gentlier on,
Our music shall break forth its strain,
And tell of pleasures that are gone,

And heighten those that yet remain ;
And that creative breath divine,

Shall waken many a slumbering thrill,
And call forth many a mystic line
Of faded joys remembered still.

Again, the moments'shall she bring,
When youth was in his freshest prime;
We'll pluck the roses that shall spring
Upon the grave of buried time.
There's magic in the olden song ;—
Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears,
Which steal a-down, our smiles among,
Roused by the sounds of other years.

And, as the mariner can find

Wild pleasure in the voiced roar Even of the often-dreaded wind,

That wrecked his every hope before ; If there's a pang that lurks beneath— For youth had pangs-oh! let it rise! 'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe

The spirit of our former sighs.

We'll hear the strains we heard so soft,
In life's first, warm, impassioned hours,
That fell on our young hearts so soft
As summer dews on summer flowers!
And as the stream, where'er it hies,

Steals something in its purest flow,
Those strains shall taste of ecstasies
O'er which they floated long ago.

Even in our morn, when fancy's eye

Glanced, sparkling o'er a world of bliss,
When joy was young, and hope was high,
We could not feel much more than this:
Howe'er, then, time our day devours,
Why should our smiles be overcast ?
Why should we grieve for fleeting hours?
We find a future in the past.

Blackwood's Magazine.

22*

T. D.

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AWAY! though still thy sword is red,
With life-blood from my sire;
No drop of thine may now be shed,
To quench my spirit's fire,

Though on my heart, 'twould fall more blest,
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

I've sought thee 'midst the haunts of men,-
Through the wide city's fanes;
I've sought thee by the lion's den,
O'er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that tracked the burning waste,
But I its lonely course have traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell,
O'er my dark bosom cast;

No thought may dream, no words may tell
What there unseen hath passed :-

This hollow cheek, this faded eye,

Are seals of thee-behold, and fly!

Haste thee, and leave my threshold-floor,
Inviolate and pure ;

Let not thy presence tempt me more-
Man may not thus endure.

Away! I bear a fettered arm,—

A heart that burns-but must not harm!

Hath not my cup for thee been poured,
Beneath the palm-tree's shade!
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored,
Within my dwelling laid!

What though unknown-yet who shall rest
Secure if not the Arab's guest ?

Begone! outstrip the fleet Gazelle !
The wind in speed subdue;
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,
As vengeance shall pursue!
And hate, like love-in parting pain,
Smiles o'er one hope-we meet again.

To-morrow-and the avenger's hand,
The warrior's dart is free;
E'en now, no spot in all the land,
Save this, had sheltered thee:-
Let blood the monarch's hall profane,
The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast
Avoid thy sacred way,

And fettered, till thy steps be past,
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day :-

I would not, that thy doom should be
Assigned by Heaven, to aught but me.
Literary Gazette.

A PERSIAN PRECEPT.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

FORGIVE thy foes;-nor that alone;
Their evil deeds with good repay;
Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant Sandal bow
In meek forgiveness to its doom;
And o'er the axe at every blow,

Sheds in abundance rich perfume!

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