I do not see the hawthorn tree,
But how can I forget?

For oh, there are so many things
Recall the past to me-
The breeze upon the sunny hills,
The billows of the sea.

The rosy tint that decks the sky

Before the sun is set-
Ay, every leaf I look upon-
Forbids me to forget.

They tell me she is happy now,
The gayest of the gay;
They hint that she forgets me:

I heed not what they say.

Like me, perhaps, she struggles with

Each feeling of regret ;

But if she loved as I have loved,

She never can forget.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

can see no more

Tell him to go where Fame looks proudly on At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye the brave; Tell him to win a name by deeds on land and The changeful play of signals gay, when the

wave;

gloom is speckled o'er

Green, green upon his brow the laurel-wreath With kraal-fires, when the Caffre wends shall be, home through the lone karroo, Although the laurel now may not be shared When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu,

with me.

Then bend your gaze across the waste. What | From the sandy sea uprising as the watersee ye? The giraffe, spout from ocean,

Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon the turbid A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the

lymph to quaff;

With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he

kneels him down to cool

His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool.

courser's fiery motion.

Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture whirs on high;

Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly,

A rustling sound, a roar, a bound: the lion And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, sits astride join in the horrid race; Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever By the footprints wet with gore and sweat their monarch's course they trace.

king so ride?

Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of

state

To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate?

They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear the while

With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile.

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are On! on! No pause, no rest, giraffe, while

The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast.

His feet have wings; see how he springs O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush

As from their sockets they would burst, his Thus nightly o'er his broad domain the king

glaring eyeballs strain;

In thick black streams of purling blood full

fast his life is fleeting;

The stillness of the desert hears his heart's

tumultuous beating.

Like the cloud that through the Wilderness

the path of Israel traced,

Like an airy phantom dull and wan, a spirit

of the waste,

RARY

But oh what ills await the wretch that | And venerable bosom bleeding bare.