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A DIRGE.

By CHATTERTON, whose melancholy history is known to every reader.

O! SING unto my roundelay,

0! drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holiday,
Like a running river be :

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his skin as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below :

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the night-mares as they go :
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

See! the white moon shines on bigh ;

Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,

Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid :
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

VOL. II.

With my bands I'll bind the briers,

Round his holy corse to gre,
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be :
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heart's blood all away:
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day :

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
. Water-witches, crown'd with reytes,

Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die-I come-my true-love waits

Thus the damsel spake, and died.

SONG. A graceful translation, by BRYANT, of a graceful lyric by INGLESIAS, a poet of Spain.

ALEXIS calls me cruel;

The lifted crags that hold
The gather'd ice of winter,

He says, are not more cold;

When even the very blossoms

Around the fountain's brim
And forest walks can witness

The love I bear to him.
I would that I could utter

My feelings without shame,
And tell him how I love him,

Nor wrong my virgin fame.
Alas! to seize the moment

When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion,

Is not a woman's part.

If man comes not to gather

The roses where they stand,
They fade among the foliage;

They cannot seek his hand.

TO THE SOUTH WIND. Tarning to America, where poetry is taking its place among national literature, we find in a Boston periodical entitled Whim-whams, this elegant address.

BALMY breeze from the blossomy south,
Kissing my lips with thy tender mouth,
Touching my forehead with delicate hand,
Lifting my hair up with breath so bland,
And bathing my head with scents of flowers
Borne from the laps of southern bowers-
Balmy breeze, I behold not thee;
Yet, oh, how beautiful thou must be !

Stay-wilt thou stay, sweet breeze ? Ah! now
It hath fled away from my lip and brow;
There, over the plain, its wide robe spreads,
And the gentle flowers are bending their heads :
It hath enter'd the wood—the beautiful breeze!
I hear its music among the trees;
And now it is passing over the river-
I know by the water's timid quiver.

Balmy breeze! I behold not thee;
But, oh, how beautiful thou must be.!
Come, thou breeze, from the bloomy south,
Kiss my lips with thy tender mouth,
Touch my brow with thy delicate hand,
And take me away to thy southern land ;
Then never more, breeze invisible, roam,
But dwell with me in thy spirit's home,

SONG. The spirit of the old Lyrists seems to have inspired this composition by CHARLES MACKAY.

What is it ails thee, heart of mine ?
What makes thee sorrow and repine,

And in sweet Nature's face no more
Take the same pleasure as before ?
Why, when the flowerets gem the ground,
And birds make music all around,
And each created thing is glad,
Art thou so desolate and sad ?
Time was, when not a bird could spring,
But thou wert pleased to hear it sing,
When woods and wilds were fair to see,
And sunshine beautiful to thee.
Sad heart of mine! by love alone
The darkness and the blight are thrown,
"Tis falsehood causes thy annoy,
Thou 'st lost thy lover and thy joy.
Oh Fate! my happy times renew
All nature smiles when love is true;
Would he be kind, I'd not be sad,
And little things should make me glad.
Once more for me the birds should sing,
And birds make music with the spring,
And Nature's voice resound with glee,
Were my false love but true to me.

FAREWELL TO RIVILIN. Another graceful lyric by EBENEZER ELLIOTT. BEAUTIFUL River ! goldenly shining Where with the cistus woodbines are twining; (Birklands around thee, mountains above thee,) Rivilin wildest ! do I not love thee?

Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River ?
Love thee, and leave thee ? Leave thee for ever?
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee !
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!
Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!
Playfully mingling laughter and sadness,
Ribbledin's Sister! sad in thy gladness.

Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing,
Man is a shadow ? River undying!
Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth,
E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth.

Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes,
Coffin'd in slander, far from thy roses,
Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking River !
Tell them I loved thee- love thee for ever!

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal;
River of Beauty! love is eternal :
While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven,
Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven.

There wilt thou bail me, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!
Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me,
Glad as the heathflower, glowing to meet thee.

TIMBER. How full of graceful sentiment is the following extract from Vaugkan's Poems, published in 1640. SURE thou didst flourish once, and many Springs,

Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers Pass'd o'er thy head ; many light hearts, and wings,

That now are dead, lodged in thy living towers : And still a new succession sings, and flies-

Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring-skies,

While the low violet thriveth at their root.

WHAT ELOQUENCE DOST THOU LOVE BEST? We extract the following graceful and spirited stanzas from an old number of the Dublin National Magazine, a periodical, which has long since ceased publication. The author is John LOCKE.

What eloquence dost thou love best?
The lyre, the lamp, the tongue, the eye;
That vary here our strange unrest,
As shadows o’er the landscape fly.

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