I know not if there be a sense More sweet, than to impart The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh, And e'en when sickness damped thy brow, Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands, Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands, Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf, He looks-the green, the blossomed bough But deadlier than the simoom burns The fire of Pestilence; His shadow into darkness turns The passing of events: Where points his finger,—lowers the storm; Where his eye fixes, feeds the worm On people and on prince! Where treads his step-there glory lies; Where breathes his breath,—there beauty dies! And to the beautiful and young Thy latest cares were given; How spake thy kind and pitying tongue The messages of heaven! Soothing her grief who, fair and frail, Waned paler yet, and yet more pale, Smit by the livid Plague, which cast As danger deeper grew and dark, Her hopes could conscience bring; One pang at parting-'t was the last- To track the source from whence it came, The nodding hearse, the sable plume, The artificial grief or gloom Are pageants which but hide Hearts, from the weight of anguish free: But there were many wept for thee Who wept for none beside, And felt, thus left alone below, And many mourned that thou should'st lie Glad from barbaric realms to fly, A land whose sons were slaves; But oft, methinks, in future years, And see her offered roses showered Those roses on their languid stalk Which, mingled with the laurel's stem, Or pity cease the heart to swell – TO THEE there can be no FAREWELL! THE BREEZE FROM THE SHORE. BY MRS. HEMANS. Joy is upon the lonely seas When Indian forests pour Forth to the billow and the breeze Oh! welcome are the winds that tell Where far away the jasmines dwell, Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, The sailor at the helm they meet, The fair earth's messengers, Back to her glorious bowers again. They woo him, whispering lovely tales And fount's bright gleam in island-vales Across his lone ship's wake they bring And, oh! ye masters of the lay, Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part, Their tones are of the world, which time They tell us of the living light They call us, with a voice divine, Our vows of youth at many a shrine, Welcome high thought, and holy strain, Literary Souvenir. A LYRICAL BALLAD. AN almost coldness autumn sky, Uplifts that mazy roof, whereon Turn to the sun,—and it will shine, Lighted in one far-stretching line, Just like a moonlight sea. Look back,-e'en there, their trammels slight The spinners have as thickly spun ; Yet they elude our prying sight, Save when they meet the sun. Strange work, ye tiny artisans, Pardon that we your meshes sweep, It is my chimney's full-fledged brood, |