A scene of pensive loveliness? -The gleam Of Dian's gentle ray falls on the trees,
And piercing through the gloom, seems like the smile That Pity gives to cheer the brow of Grief; The turf hath caught a silvery hue of light, Broken by shadows, where the branching oak Rears its dark shade, or where the aspen waves Its trembling leaves. The breeze is murmuring by, Fraught with sweet sighs of flowers and the song Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth, Like the soft dirge of love.
A melancholy record of this grove :
"Twas once, they say, the haunt of young Affection
And now seems hallowed by the tender vows
That erst were breathed here.
That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed;
But love is like the rose, so many ills
Assail it in the bud! The cankering blast, The frost of winter and the summer storm, All bow it down; rarely the blossom comes To full maturity; but there is nought Sinks with so chill a breath as Faithlessness,- As she could tell whose loveliness lives yet In village legends. Often at this hour Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows Of one more dear than life unto her soul; He twined him round the heart which beat with all The deep devotedness of early love,- Then left her, careless of the passion which He had awakened into wretchedness.
The blight which withered all the blossoms love
Had fondly cherished, withered too the heart Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice, Save in her faded beauty; for she looked A melancholy, broken-hearted girl.
She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Once mantling o'er her cheek like that which eve Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue, Had faded into paleness, broken by Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb. There was such sadness, even in her smiles, And such a look of utter hopelessness Dwelt in her soft blue eye, a form so frail, So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth,- 'Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair, And see it traced with such a tale of woe, To think that one so young and beautiful Was wasting to the grave.
Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth, The mountain-ash puts forth to welcome spring, Her form was found reclined upon a bank, Where nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom. One white arm lay beneath her drooping head, While her bright tresses twined their sunny wreath
Around the polished ivory; there was not A tinge of colour on her lovely face ;-
'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill Had traced each charm of beauty but the blush.
Serenity, so sweet, sat on her brow,
So soft a smile yet hovered o'er her lips,
At first they thought 'twas sleep, and sleep it was,
The cold long rest of death.
L. E. L.
REPROACH ME NOT.
Он! gentle shade, reproach me not, For hours of mirth too late gone by !
Thy loveliness is ne'er forgot However wild the revelry. For o'er the silent goblet, thou Art still remembered, and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow; And I am lone, while all are loud.
Reproach me not, -Reproach me not For mingling in the noisy scene !
Mine is indeed a gloomy lot,
To think on joys which but have been ; To meditate on woes, which yet Must haunt my life, and speed my fall ! Some minds would struggle to forget, But mine would fain remember all.
I think on thee, I think and sigh,- Though thoughts are sad, and sighs are vain ! There's something in thy memory, That gives a loveliness to pain; But yet, ah! gentle saint, forgive
The faults this wretched breast hath known! Had fate allowed thee but to live,
Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shewn.
Thy friends are fading from my sight, But from my mind they ne'er depart; They leave behind them in their flight, Their images upon my heart;- And better 'twere that all should go From this dark world, since thou art gone!
I need no friend to share my woe!- I love to weep apart,-alone.
Thy picture! It is life, health, love,- To gaze upon that eye, that cheek,- Those lips which even in fancy move- Which fancy teaches even to speak. Oh! I have hung so long at night,
O'er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain, That I have thought the living light
Came beaming from those eyes again!
In my dark heart thy image glows,
In shape and light divinely fair;- Youth sketched the form, when free from woes, And faithful memory placed it there. In revelry 'tis still with me ;—
In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, - My heart beats still the same to thee :- Reproach me not! - Reproach me not !
St. James's Chronicle.
THE girls with laughing faces, Still harp on age's traces; And still they cry, grow wiser, Your glass be your adviser. See there the locks we cherished, On that dear brow are perished. For me, nor know, nor care I, If they depart or tarry; But this I know much better, It suits me to the letter, To prize the joys remaining, Because those joys are waning.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.
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