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Those tranquil looks suspend thy mother's anguish,
Those artless smiles her drooping heart sustain ;
Victim of broken vows, tho' doom'd to languish,
She lives in THEE to peace and hope again.
Maria Riddell.

SIMILE

When shooting on Stapleford Moor.

YE wide-spread moors, and length'ning wastes!
O'er which I bend my devious way,
My mind a secret pleasure tastes,
As through your solitudes I stray.

For here neglected and forlorn

Some unknown blossom greets my sight; Rears its fair head beneath the thorn, Protected from th' autumnal blight.

But Winter now with hasty stride
Begins to desolate the plain,
And soon, ah soon! its vernal pride
Must fall beneath his iron reign.

So have I seen some village maid
In virgin charms and beauty drest,
The pride of some sequester'd shade,
With health and native virtue blest;

Till specious Love, with fraudful smile,
Soon robs her mind of wonted rest,
Nor joy, nor peace, her thoughts beguile,
And sorrow fills her artless breast.

Quick from her cheeks the roses fade,
No longer beams her sparkling eye,
By perjur'd vows and wiles betray'd,
She's left to languish, weep, and die.

C. S.

THE FALLING TOWER.

MARK

ye the Tower whose lonely halls Re-echo to yon falling stream?

Mark ye its bare and crumbling walls,
Where slowly fades the sinking beam?

There, oft, when eve in silent trance,

Hears the lorn redbreast's plaintive moan, Time, casting round a cautious glance, Heaves from its base some mould'ring stone.

There, tho' in Time's departed day,
War wav'd his glittering banners high;
Tho' many a minstrel pour'd the lay,

And many a beauty tranc'd the eye;

Yet never, midst the gorgeous scene,
Midst the proud feasts of splendid pow'r,
Shone on the pile a beam serene,

So bright as gilds its falling hour.

Oh! thus when life's gay scenes shall fade,
And pleasure lose its wonted bloom,
When creeping age shall bare my head,
And point to me the silent tomb;

Then may Religion's hallow'd flame
Shed on my mind its mildest ray;

And bid it seek in purer frame

One bright Eternity of Day.

County Magazine.

TO A LADY SINGING.

O, CAN that heart untouch'd remain
By all love's pleasures, all love's pain,
When, while thou sing'st another's woes,
Thy cheek with deeper crimson glows;
When, as thou wak'st the feeling strain,
Through ev'ry clear translucent vein,
That strays amid thy forehead's snow,
The streams of life more swiftly flow;

When, mix'd with many a passion'd sigh,
Upon thy lips the accents die;

When sweeter languors, softer dews,
Those twin bright orbs of light suffuse?

And I have seen thy bosom's snow
Throb with the luxury of woe;

And I have mark'd th' impassion'd glance
That speaks the soul's delicious trance;
And felt the poison of thine eye;
And drank the magic of thy sigh;
And, as the sweet infection stole
Through all my veins, and fir'd my soul,
I wish'd one timid glance might tell
How deep I felt the subtile spell.

Then, Lady, sing of love again;

And while thou wak'st the feeling strain,
While, mix'd with many a passion'd sigh,
Upon thy lips the accents die;

And while again thy bosom's snow
Throbs with the luxury of woe,
O, pour on me the thrilling glance
That speaks the soul's delicious trance—
And if I dare one look to steal,

That look shall tell thee all I feel;

And, Lady, then thine alter'd eye
Shall feed my hopes, or bid them die.

Bayley's Poems.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

BENEATH this hillock's narrow bound

A lovely infant lies;

'Till the last trump shall shake the ground, And roll away the skies.

Some pitying angel view'd the fair,
In innocence array'd,

And snatch'd her from each future snare,
The world and guilt had laid.

From all the chequer'd ills below
MARY secure shall sleep;

Her little heart no pang shall know;
Her eyes no more shall weep.

When thousands, rising from the dust,
Shall tremble as they rise,
This smiling saint without distrust

Shall upwards lift her eyes.

Let sorrow for her early doom

No more in silence sigh;

But Hope, that points beyond the tomb,

Bid ev'ry tear be dry.

Collection of Epitaphs.

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