While happy in my father's bower,

Thou shalt the blithe memorial be!

The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends, with thee Are mine in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
O for the April sun and shower,

The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk!—that here might shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,

A hundred from one root!

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To me the pledge of Hope unseen!
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how-fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust,-
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

London Magazine.

SILENT LOVE.

Oн, I could whisper thee a tale
That surely would thy pity move;

But what would idle words avail

Unless the heart might speak its love!

To tell that tale my pen were weak ;—
My tongue its office too denies ;
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my languid eyes!

W.

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross, was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star, as a friend from whom we have been long separated. Among the Portuguese and Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the new world. The two great stars which mark the summit and the foot of the cross, having nearly the same right ascension, it follows hence, that the constellation is almost perpendicular, at the moment when it passes the meridian. This circumstance is known to every nation that lives beyond the tropics, or in the southern hemisphere. It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the cross of the south is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly nearly four minutes a day, and no other group of stars exhibits, to the naked eye, an observation of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim in the savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, 'midnight is past, the cross begins to bend'.'

DE HUMBOLDT'S TRAVELS.

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where Savannas in boundless magnificence spread;
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The Fern-tree waves o'er me; the fire-fly's red light,
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read, in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn,
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the Olive and Vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main,
My fathers unfolded the streamer of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.

How oft, in their course over oceans unknown,
Where all was mysterious and awfully lone,

Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the deep
Reflected its brilliance, in tremulous sleep!

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,*
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou!

And to me, as I traverse the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty, in stillness that rest,
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy beams have a language, thy course is a guide.

Shine on! my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes which I love, though e'en now they may be
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine;

And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes, to mingle with thee!
Literary Gazette.

WITH A WHITE ROSE,

FROM A LOVER OF THE HOUSE OF YORK

TO HIS

MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE OF LANCASTER.

If this pale rose offend thy sight,

Go place it in thy bosom fair,
"Twill blush to find itself less white,

And turn Lancastrian there.

*Alluding to the Vision of Constantine the Great.

R

STANZAS.

BY J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ.

― And muttered, lost! lost! lost!'
SIR W. SCOTT, BART.

"Tis vain to grieve for what is past,
The golden hours are gone;

My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:

"Tis vain to grieve-I now can leave
No other bliss-yet still I grieve.

The dreadful silence of this night
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppressed and near;
I stare at it while half reclined,
And feel its thick light on my mind.

The sweetest fate have I laid waste
With a remorseless heart;

All that was beautiful and chaste,

For me seemed set apart;

But I was fashioned to defy

Such treasure, so set richly by.

How could I give up HER, whose eyes
Were filled with quiet tears,

For many a day-when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darkened with just fears,

Of all my vices !-Memory sees

Her eyes' divine remonstrances.

A wild and wretched choice was mine,

A life of low delight;

The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;

The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.

To those who plunged me in the throng Of such disastrous joys,

Who led me by low craft along,

And stunned my mind with noise,

I only wish they now could look

Upon my life's despoiled book.

When midnight finds me torn apart
From vulgar revelry,

The cold, still, madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.

My love is lost;-my studies marred;
My friends disgraced and changed;
My thoughts all scattered and impaired ;
My relatives estranged;

Yet can I not by day recall

My ruined Spirit from its thrall.

Peter Corcoran's Memoirs.

EPITAPH.

SHE lived;-what further can be said
Of all the generations dead?

She died; what more can be foretold

Of all the living, young or old?

She lived with death before her eye,

As one who did not fear to die;
She died as one exchanging breath,
For immortality in death.

Her dust is here her spirit there-
Eternity! O tell me where?