STANZAS.

TORN by the cares that hourly throw

A deepening shade around my breast, Nor love, nor pity's softest glow,

Can soothe my labouring heart to rest.

Inspired with hope, as yet I seek

The solace of some favourite theme,

But shrink, irresolute and weak,

To prosecute a happier scheme.

The Muse that once awakened bliss,
When sterner occupations failed,

Now yields no antidote like this

For sadness that has long prevailed

Love, even love, corrodes the dart

Implanted by increasing care,

And leaves it in my wounded heart,

To fester unabated there.

L

THE FOLLOWING EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION WAS WRITTEN IN THE SOCIAL CIRCLE, AT THE INSTANCE OF A MOMENTARY EBULLITION OF FEELING, WHICH THE READER WILL BE AT NO LOSS TO DISCOVER.

WHAT lovely creatures Women are!

They look as if the Genius of

The Great, "the Bright and Morning Star"
Had just bequeathed them from above,

To show what precious fruits arise

Usparingly beyond the skies!

But then how changed the Women are
By intercourse with hopeful man!
Whose best designs they often mar,

And seem the happiest when they can;
As though the fruit of heaven could not

Bloom here without a cankering spot.

Ah Woman! truly as thou art

The fairest of the human race,
Does Earth, alas! too soon impart

Corruption to thy sweetest grace,—

And leave thee unredeemed at last,
Unlike the angel that thou wast.

A LADY, STUNG BY THE REFLECTION, IMMEDIATELY SUBJOINED ANOTHER STANZA:

If Women are angels, alas! for the race

That has suffered as much as a race ever can;

For spite of their reason, and spite of their grace,
Their only companion is devilish man.

SONG.

OH! tell me not beauty resides in the form
That distinguishes rubicund health,

Nor yet that the heart of a lover can warm
In the fancied enjoyment of wealth:
The passion that yields to no earthly control,
Finds only a permanent balm in the soul.

And that which adorns in an active degree
The receptacle Nature hath given,
And is held in the wisdom of sages to be
The most lofty bestowment of heaven,
Is the prize unto which I would ever aspire,
As that which alone can repay my desire.

But tell me not Nature, however inclined

To reward with her bounties the fair, Confers upon those the distinction of mind

Who inherit her temporal care:

The soul that is filled with an essence divine,

Can only in features ethereal shine.

THE BUTTERCUP.

BEFORE the sweet enlivening Spring
Assumes a general robe of green,

And woods with kindly greetings ring,
Along their shadowy base is seen
A flower of golden dye.

Then skirting round the verdant field, Where little rude embankments rise,

And shrubs of daring aspect yield

A refuge from the stormy skies,

This flower again is seen.

And stealing now o'er all the plain,
A widely destined course to run,

It gayly drinks the vernal rain,

Or basks beneath the

gorgeous sun

Throughout the smiling day.