TO HER I LOVE.

In hopes to meet a lover's name,

Here shall the eyes of beauty rove: But only one the song shall claim,

The song that's meant for her I love.

“ And who's the maid," shall beauty ask,

« That can o'er thee so powerful prove, Whose smile impels the lyric task ?"

Hear my reply-'tis her I love.

Her lips of pow'r mysterious are,

Who shall these lines from me approve; A cupid lurks in ambush there,

His spell-the voice of her I love.

To live for love, and sigh for fame,

The poet marks-behest of Jove; My passions feed a double flame

I sigh for fame, and her I love.

Could I, while you my soul inspire,

Thy beauty paint, thy pity move; Then farewell fame! then farewell lyre !

My fame's the praise of her I love.

Full many a maid, with magic skill,

The bard arrays, his art to prove;His song may scatter charms at will,

But mine is grac'd by her I love.

Thy charms shall lend it wings to fly

O'er hill and valley, plain and grove: The passport to a lover's sigh

Shall be the name of her I love.

Oh! maid belov'd ! Oh! lyre adorn'd!

Who now shall dare the song reprove? By thee admir'd—their frowns are scorn’d, I only write to her I love.

Morning Herald.

ELEGY.

Sigu

gh not, ye winds, as passing o'er The chambers of the dead you fly; Weep not, ye dews, for these no more

Shall ever weep, shall ever sigh.

Why mourn the throbbing heart at rest ?
How still it lies within the breast!
Why inourn, since death presents us peace,
And in the grave our sorrows céase ?

The shatter'd bark by adverse winds,
Rest in this peaceful haven finds;
And, when the storms of life are past,
Hope drops her anchor here at last.

Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o'er

The chambers of the dead you fly;
Weep not, ye dews, for these no more
Shall ever weep, shall ever sigh.

Mrs. Hunter.

THE EVENING STAR

Hail, Hesperus! bright torch of beauty's queen,

Dear sacred gem of dewy evening, hail ! So shine thy rays above her spangled sheen,

As glows the moon above thy radiance pale.

When to th' accustom'd fair my footsteps stray,

Now timely sbine, for lo! the changeful moon Drives her dim chariot in the blaze of day,

And envious sets ere half the night be done.

No plunder tempts me thro’ the treach'rous shade ;

For me no nightly traveller shall mourn: 'Tis love that calls thee, be his voice obey'd; Sweet is her love, and claims a sweet return.

Trunslated from Moschus.

ODE TO A CRICKET.

Little guest, with merry throat,

That chirpest by my taper's light, Come, prolong thy blithsome note,

Welcome visitant of night.

Here enjoy a calm retreat,

In my chimney safely dwell,
No rude hand thy haunt shall beat,

Or chase thee from thy lonely cell.

Come, recount me all thy woes,

While around us sighs the gale ;
Or, rejoic'd to find repose,
Charm me with thy merry

tale.

Say, what passion moves thy breast,

Does some flame employ thy care? Perhaps with love thou art opprest,

A mournful victim to despair.

Shelter'd from the wintry wind,

Live and sing, and banish care ; Here protection thou shalt find, Sympathy has brought thee here.

Davis's Travels in America.

TO S...... D......,

WITH A RING.

Emblem of happiness, not bought, nor sold,
Accept this modest ring of virgin gold.
Love in the small, but perfect circle, trace,
And duty in its soft, but strict embrace.
Plain, precious, pure, as best becomes the wife;
Yet firm to bear the frequent rubs of life.
Connubial love disdains a fragile toy,
Which rust can tarnish, or a touch destroy;
Nor much admires what courts the gen'ral gaze,
The dazzling di'mond's meretricious blaze,
That hides with glare the anguish of a heart
By nature hard, tho' polish'd bright---by art.
More to thy taste the ornament that shows
Domestic bliss, and, without glaring, glows;
Whose gentle pressure serves to keep the mind
To all correct, to one discreetly kind.
Of simple elegance th’ unconscious charm;
The holy ainulet to keep from harm;
To guard at once, and consecrate the shrine,
Take this dear pledge—it makes, and keeps, thee
mine.

W. D. (her husband.)