Then gathering thus her golden hair,

She would have gone, when he said, "Stay,

See my love's form, is she not fair

And lovely as a morn of May ?"

She took the jewelled box; she looked
Upon the mirrored lid; she grew
Like crystal stained with rosy wine,

Or like a sunbeam seen through dew.
She saw herself, and sidelong drew

Nigh him, and with a soft low voice, Said, "If the mirror tells me true,

I know her, and approve thy choice."

Such is the story told by one

Excelling in the natural way
Of saying simple things, whom none
In elegance surpassed. The gay,
grave, the young, and hoary gray,

The

Love Nature in her meek undress. No more, for words will poorly say

What Art's embodied thoughts express.

THE SORROWS OF HOPE.

BY GEORGE DARLEY, ESQ.

"ARRAY! array the bridal feast!
Be ready, paranymphs and priest!
Hurry to church the swooning Maid!—
The rite is done, the blessing said:
She is the old Lord Walter's wife,
Her destiny is sealed for life!
No heir from these unfruitful bands
Shall step between us and her lands,
Which should have come to us by right;
Our Uncle was a drivelling wight

To leave the Girl his treasures, when

He had as near relations men!"

So spake her Cousins. Months flew past,

I left my fevered couch at last:

"O, Eveline! dear Cousin! now
For thy soft hand to sooth my brow!
Thy breath, as sweet as morning air,
To pour its perfume on my hair!
Come, with thy harp, my soul to calm ;
Come, with thy voice, my spirit's balm!
Sweet-murmuring, like the forest dove,
Sing me the ditty that I love!"

A brother's voice in laughter broke Close at my elbow as I spoke :

'Twas Simon, with as sly a grin

As drunken Death might cast on Sin:

Another face as blear, but older,

Looked with a death-scowl o'er his shoulder,

My brother Roland's; black as night,
When Hell has suffocated light.

"Six months ago, our Cousin wed,
While you lay groaning on your bed;
And now is-where, the Heavens can say!—
But sure some thousand miles away.
Glad was the Nymph to save from you
Her broad lands and her beauty too."
Had Heaven upon my head let fall
The fiercest thunderbolt of all,

It had not withered thus my youth!
Age came at once: in very sooth,
By agony, in one short day,

My raven locks were turned to gray!
Misfortune now most bitter made
The scenes where we together strayed,
The hills we ranged like two gazelles,
The banks we sought for cowslip bells,
Or lily pale, her favourite flower,
The darkling grove, the secret bower,
The simple lays our hearts approved,
The tales of beauty that we loved,

The silent, dim, secluded vale,

Where love had breathed his ardent tale,