TIME. WHILE others grace thy natal day For smiling beauty best can prove I will not boast how oft and bright Thy hand my rosy crown bestowed To thee my sparkling glass I owed, Thou canst not reach so rich a prize Midst sands that sparkle in my glass The rest may glitter, break, and pass, Pride may the modest pearl disdain, They mock my power, yet I alone Receive my gift!-of nature's wealth Of Pleasure, Honour, Hope, and Health, The gem which none of these can buy SONG, BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. For thee, love, for thee love, I'll brave fate's sternest storm; She cannot daunt or chill the hearts Which love keeps bold and warm: Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught For thee, love, for thee, love, For pleasure's smiles are vanity, For thee, love, for thee, love, And aid thy steps the journey through, Nor quit thee till I'm dead; And even then round her I love,. My shade shall hovering be, And warble notes from heaven above To thee, love, only thee. New European Magazine. STANZAS WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ. To whom belongs this valley fair, Calm, -as the infant at the breast,Save a still sound that speaks of rest,That streamlet's murmuring! The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch this beauteous earth O! that this lovely vale were mine! There would unto my soul be given, From presence of that gracious heaven, A piety sublime; And thoughts would come of mystic mood, To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time! And did I ask to whom belonged This vale ?-I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul! She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea! long as nature's humblest child Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, Is built amid the skies! CELANO. A BLUE Italian sky,-yet scarce more blue Beneath whose shade might the young painter lean, Dark Hannibal once rested. Who could dream That this calm lake was crimson once with blood? That these green myrtles waved, o'er the death-wounds Of men in their last agony? Oh, War! How soon thy red fiends can lay desolate The holy and the beautiful! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE FLOWER OF MALHAMDALE. IF, on some bright and breezless eve, A sigh that seems allied to grief, Nor shed the tear, nor pour the wail, The sweetest flower of Malhamdale! Her form was like the fair sun-stream The placid depth of that dark eye, The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek, Will still awake the long-drawn sigh, While memory of the past shall speak. And we can never be but pained To think, when gazing on that vale, One angel more to heaven is gained, But one is lost to Malhamdale! I may not tell what dreams were mine, Of Love, and Hope, and Joy, is pale, |