RICHMOND HILL. SWEET Richmond! Like a woodland queen Smiling around, on bank and bower, And grove, and mead, and tree, and flower; As each presents its verdant gem To wreathe thy rustic diadem; While Thames' soft waves, with murmurs sweet, And still, to leave thy beauties slow, What time he rushes to the Ocean tide, And on his ample stream his country's bulwarks ride! Sweet Richmond! In thy terraced grove The Child, in life's sweet opening day, All sunshine, beauty, light, and love, As Summer's rosy noon in Richmond's flowery grove. And Manhood marks the magic scene Then, wandering forth at evening hour, Shall beam on man, and Richmond Hill ! W. H. M. A SKETCH. A DREAM of saddest beauty: one pale smile Of broken hearts!-Its oracle but words of doom! LADY, if THE TOURNAMENT. you love to hear Tales of lofty chivalry, Stealing Beauty's sigh or tear; List not, lady sweet, to me. But there is a gentle sight, Roselike, always born with May, Full of arms and glances bright, "Tis GRANADA's holyday! Twilight on the west was sleeping, When a silver trumpet sounded, In the plain, balconies proud, Hung with silk and flowery chain, Like a statued temple, shewed, Rank o'er rank, the dames of Spain. Soon the tapestried kettle-drums Through the distant square were pealing; Soon was seen the toss of plumes Then, before the portal arch, Every horseman checked the rein, Till the rocket for their march, Flaming up the sky was seen. Like a wave of steel and gold, At their sight arose the roar From the people gazing round;Proudly came the squadrons four, Prancing up the tilting ground. First they gallop where the screen Round the barrier then they wheel, Hark! the trumpet long and loud!— Light as roe-bucks bound the steeds; Sunny bright the armour gleams; Gallant charge to charge succeeds, Like the rush of mountain streams! Noon has come,-the warriors rest, Then are shown the lordly form, As they wander round the plain, Till again the trumpets play, And the Moorman's turban torn. Closes then the tournament ; And the noble squadrons four, Proudly to the banquet-tent, March by Turia's flowery shore. Lovely as the evening sky, Ere the golden sun is down, March Granada's chivalry, Champions of the Church and Crown! One still lingered, pale and last, By the lonely gallery's stair, As if there his soul had past, Who the knight?-To few was known. Who his love?-He ne'er would tell. But her eyes were like thine own,— And his heart was,-Oh, Farewell! Blackwood's Magazine. EPITAPH. OPHELIA was the maiden's name, Only her beauty died; Envy has nothing to proclaim, Nor Flattery to hide. I |