2

A lance ill headed; a foul blot;

An agate vilely cut; a vane Blown round by every blast.

Go on,

Gay Beatrice, give thy fancy rein; In all thy proud sarcastic glory Descend. Need I repeat the story

Which Shakspeare tells and Howard paints?
See there she listens, breast and brow
Throbbing and flushed—the blind might see
The serpent that hath stung her now.
Flowed off, her wits o'ermastering mood,
That swept men's follies like a flood.

Love on that sharp satiric tongue

Hath laid his load; no more it sins

'Gainst man—what merry fish could swim, Hooked thus with lead upon its fins. Farewell. An image fair thou art,

Of a keen wit and kindly heart.

N. M.

SONG.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE, ESQ.

OH! not when hopes are brightest,

Is all love's sweet enchantment known;

Oh! not when hearts are lightest,

Is all fond woman's fervour shown:

But when life's clouds o'ertake us,

And the cold world is clothed in gloom;

When summer friends forsake us,

The rose of love is best in bloom.

Love is no wandering vapour,

That lures astray with treacherous spark ;

Love is no transient taper,

That lives an hour and leaves us dark:

But, like the lamp that lightens

The Greenland hut beneath the snow,

The bosom's home it brightens,

When all beside is chill below.

THE DEAD.

BY LUD. COLQUHOUN, ESQ.

"As the cloud is consumed, and vanisheth away; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more." JOB.

ARISE! arise, ye dead!

Unseal your closed eyes;

Ye have lingered long in your narrow bed,

From the sleep of death arise!

Would ye not look upon

The things ye loved while here?
O brightly gleams the glorious sun
In the ocean's mirror clear;

The gorgeous sky is loud

With the ringing voice of mirth,
And the sounds of joy have overflowed
This fair and fruitful earth:

Would ye not look once more

On the scene of bliss and bloom
Ye left for a land where joy is o'er,
The dank and dreary tomb?

Ye answer not! The flowers

Of spring are glancing fair,

Nursed by the warm and welcome showers That southern breezes bear;

The wild bird's mellow song,
From her leafy solitude,
Pours in a rapturous flood along
The green and sunlit wood;

All, all around us seems

Without a taint of woe,

Bright as the lovely clime his dreams

To the sinless hermit show:

Joy is over the earth,

Joy is over the sky,

Would ye not mix with the sons of mirth,

And the festal revelry?

What! silent still? May none

Of these things win your praise;

Not the smiling earth, nor the glittering sun, Nor the wild bird's sweetest lays?

The friends ye prized of old,

May not they your greeting crave; Or waxeth the hand of friendship cold In the chill and cheerless grave?