A face that holds no lure, no tribute seeks, -
Demands no homage,-nothing strange bespeaks ;-
That looks as hundreds looked that they have known,
Just marked enough to call some name its own.
O, few in folly's course can check their speed,
The simple lines of character to read !
Or if they pause, the rude unfeeling eye,
The cold enquiry-contumelious sigh,
And all the world's gross pity can impart,
Are caustic to the festers of the heart.

Leeds Intelligencer.

EL HYPONDRIACO.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Go to thy rest, thou sullen Sun,
An emblem of my weary mind,
Obscure ere half its course be done,
While Night, long Night, remains behind.

All that I loved, my pencil, pen,
That stole the time on downy wings,
When shall I feel your charm again?
Farewell! ye past, ye pleasant things.

Where is thy balm of care, O Sleep,
That once upon my eyelids lay ?
Now, if a slumber on me creep,
The night is wilder than the day.

I plunge in ocean, shoot through air,-
Parch in the desert!-fly the den,-
See horrors, wake in struggling prayer ;-
And Midnight is twice Midnight then:

New Times.

M

WRITTEN AT SPITHEAD.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

HARK to the knell!

It comes in the swell

Of the stormy ocean wave.

'Tis no earthly sound,

But a toll profound

From the Mariner's deep sea grave.

When the billows dash,

And the signals flash,

And the thunder is on the gale;

And the Ocean is white

In its own wild light,

Deadly, and dismal, and pale;

When the lightning's blaze

Smites the seaman's gaze,

And the sea rolls in fire and in foam;

And the surges' roar

Shakes the rocky shore,

We hear the sea-knell come.

There 'neath the billow,

The sand their pillow,

Ten thousand men lie low;

And still their dirge

Is sung by the surge,

When the stormy night-winds blow.

Sleep, warriors! sleep

On your pillow deep

In peace! for no mortal care

No art can deceive,

No anguish can heave

The heart that once slumbers there.

New Times.

A NIGHT STORM,

AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF SNOWDON.

"TIs eve! The sun's last rays are glimmering still On Snowdon's crested summit, and around His granite rocks flows the deep bosomed rill In solitude and loveliness. Its sound, As with an angel voice, of peace profound Whispers to Heaven; and see-the sultry fires Of day more faintly yon deep crags surround; Slowly even now each western beam retires,Fades, lightens o'er the wave, and with a smile expires.

Night, utter night succeeds. Above-below
All deepens slowly in one blackening gloom;
Dark are the Heavens, as is the front of woe,-
Dark as the mountain prospects, as the tomb.
Even as I slow descend, a fearful doom
Weighs heavy on my heart, the bird of night
Screams from her straw-built nest as from the womb
Of infant death, and wheels her drowsy flight,
Amid the pine-clad rocks, with wonder and affright.

The note of woe is hushed; peace reigns around
In utter solitude; the night breeze dies
Faint on the mountain ash-leaves that surround
Snowdon's dark peaks. But hark! again the cries
Of the scared owl, loud hymning to the skies
Her tale of desolation! Fearfully
Night lengthens out the note;-the echo flies
From rock to rock; now whispering shrilly by-
Now in the distance softened, lingering mournfully.

Heaven smiles on earth again the glimmering star
Pours in mild lustre down his full-orbed light;
And see, his mistress in her burnished car
Beams on the view !-At the refulgent sight
The clouds sail by in homage, and the night

Welcomes her as a friend; - the heavenly train
Of Satellites attend her in her flight

From pole to pole; while a full chorused strain
Of Heaven's own music swells and dies in peace again.

Brightly she moves on in her loveliness!

The fair-haired regent of the sky! Her smiles Soothe the stern horrors of the scene, and bless Nature's calm slumber; o'er yon splintered piles Of beetling crags, how sweetly she beguiles Gloom of its frown; and, see! the glittering rill Heaves conscious of her presence, and reviles, With murmuring voice, yon proudly frowning hill, That scorns meek Dian's gaze, and mocks her gentle will.

A sound rolls by of horror! On the wind
Rides the dark bosomed Dæmon of the storm;
Whirlwinds, with meteor splendor, crowd behind,
And Heaven peals out the trumpet of alarm.
Hark! from yon murky cloud with lightning warm,
A voice of death proceeds! The majesty'
Of Heaven displays around its harrowing form!-
Hark! God in all his power is riding by !

Heard ye his chariot-wheels sweep echoing through the sky?

He speaks! scared nature trembles at the sound; Earth, air, sky, ocean, dictate a reply; The mountain-rock tolls out the voice profound, And woodland echo multiplies the cry :Clashed with the night owl's scream, along the sky Rolls the live thunder; through the forest caves, Dim flashes the blue lightning;-eddying by Leaps the swoll'n torrent, o'er the cataract raves With brutal force, and headlong flings its billowy waves.

The night-breeze sails athwart the sky-the thunder
Has waked him from his sleep-the spirit hears
The dæmon's call, and rudely rends asunder
The bonds of rest upon the cloud he rears

His deathless might, and wrathfully careers

Round the black rocks, dashes in vengeance down
Their craggy summits, damps the toil of years
With one rude whirlwind and, more ruthless grown,
Heaves up the ocean waves his giant strength to crown.

And now he sinks in softness, and anon
Rolls on the ear with desolating peal ;-
Again the voice is silent. - Is it gone,
The darksome horrors of the night to seal?
Forth peeps the moon; her watery beams reveal
The death that has been busy here; again
The clouds sail round, as anxious to conceal
The sight of desolation, but in vain-
She walks in beauty forth, with all her starry train.
Chester Chronicle.

W. F. D.

SONNET,

COMPOSED ON THE SEA COAST.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

O! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or bid the easily persuaded eyes

Own each strange likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bowed low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks, and then a traveller go
From mount to mount o'er CLOUDLAND, -gorgeous land!
Or listening to the tide with closed sight,

Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand,

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea !

Blackwood's Magazine.