INSCRIPTION

ON A JUTTING STONE OVER A SPRING.

THIS sycamore, oft mufical with bees,

(Such tents the Patriarchs lov'd) O long unharm'd
May all its darksome boughs o'ercanopy
The small round bason, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! still may this spring
Quietly, as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold water for the traveller

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its noiseless dance,
That at the bottom, like a fairy's page,

As merry, and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount!
Here coolness dwell, and twilight. Here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far, and find no second tree.

Here, stranger, drink! Here rest! And, if thy heart
Be innocent, here too may'st thou renew
Thy spirits, listening to these gentle sounds,
The passing gale, or ever-murmuring bees.

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

THE POOR VILLAGE MAID.

BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN.

IN yon neat, lattic'd cot, from whose chimney as cending

The smoke to the west points a column of shade, Where the jasmine and woodbine their tendrils are blending,

Dwelt Mary the orphan, a poor Village Maid.

Enshrin'd in her bosom sat innocence dawning, Whilst the soft cherub Beauty, each feature adorning, Bade the sweet glow of health, like the first blush of morning,

Yet heighten the charms of the poor Village Maid.

She was Grief's early victim-for Edward, her lover (Why, visions of bliss! why so soon did ye fade?) By a parent's harsh mandate was now a sad rover

On the salt waves afar from his poor Village Maid.

Her bosom alas! now seem'd bursting with sorrow,
Tho' Fancy from Hope oft a solace would borrow,
And timidly glance on the far-distant morrow,
That might haply bring peace to the poor Village
Maid.

Ah! long was the time the fair mourner was striving To hide what her feelings too sadly betray'd, When tidings most dread, on a sudden arriving,

Now frenzied the brain of the poor Village Maid:

That a band of fierce negroes, the thickets wideScouring,

Had sprung on the crew, with their number o'erpowering,

And murdering her Edward, then piece-meal devouring, Thus blasted the hopes of the poor Village Maid.

Oft she gaz'd, as entranc'd, on the clouds that roll'd over Th' horizon, when now day's last glories decay'd, For there would she picture the ghost of her lover, Invoking with smiles his poor dear Village Maid.

When at midnight the clock at the Abbey was sounding, She would play with the ivy, its dark walls surrounding Then list to the echo, so dreary, resounding

The hollow-toned steps of the poor Village Maid.

If an owl cross'd her path, or an insect loud-humming, Strangely mocking the sound, her abrupt pace she stay'd,

She would say 'twas the voice of her Edward now coming, Again to see Mary, the poor Village Maid.

Whilst frequent she wander'd, unmeaningly singing, Or the crowfoot, late cull'd, from her breast rudely flinging,

E'en the scarce-lisping babe, to its mother's arms clinging,

Shrunk with fear from craz'd Mary, the poor Village

Maid.

With a wild fit of laughter the sense of woe scoffing,
Ah many a day to the sea-beach she stray'd,
And fancied each ship, in the dim, distant offing,
Brought the youth so belov'd by the poor Village
Maid.

One morn as she sate weaving garlands of willow,
And resting her arm on yon cliff, her hard pillow,
Ah! prone to her feet rush'd an high-curling billow,
And bore to her
grave the poor craz'd Village Maid!

SERENADE.

Ir lock'd in soft and sweet repose
(The balm which Heaven assigns to woc,)
Thy soul ideal pleasure knows,

And gentle passions calmly glow,
Still, still entranc'd in slumber lie,
Till morn invades the eastern sky.

But if contending passions tear

That bosom form'd for love alone; If haggard Grief, and wild Despair, Torment thee with fictitious moan; O quit the scene of misery,

And wake, dear maid, to love and me.

J. E. HARWOOD,

ODE.

FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.

BY J. M. GOOD, ESQ.

I

HAVE felt the sweet tortures of love,
Yet ask me not these to declare;

Now the poison of absence I prove,
Yet ask me not this to declare.

I have ransack'd the world through each part,
And at length have selected my fair;
From each bosom she steals every heart,
But her name-ask me not to declare.

Her light footsteps, wherever she go,
With her ringlets perfuming the air,
From my eyes tears of joy overflow ;-
'Tis a joy-ask me not to declare:

No later than yesterday night,

From her mouth, with which none can compare,

I heard words of transcendant delight—

Yet those words-ask me not to declare.