STANZAS.

"It is good for us, &c."to" One for Elias." Matthew 17-4.

OH yes, it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build---but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see they would bind him below,

In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey!
To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets
The charms which she boasted before:

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, and the tints which it

wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride?

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe and the
shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain---
Who hid, in their turns have been hid---
The treasures are squandered again,

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures that mirth can afford? The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah, here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied!

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve: Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear,

Which Compassion herself could relieve; Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear--Peace, peace is the watchword---the only one here! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead! and around the dark stone! These are signs of a sceptre that none may disown! Then the first Tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise:

The second to Faith which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies?

H. D. HETHERINGTON.

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

WINE, love, and music, that conspire,
At first, to lure the mind of man,
And seem, with mirth, and fond desire,
And moving sounds, to bless the span
Allotted to existence here,

Are emblems of the meteor's glare:
Their charms delude, then disappear.
And true experience may declare:
"Such joys, alas! cannot defy
The sad reflection and the sigh."

When at the festive board I sit,

At which the choicest wines abound,
And every face with smiles is lit,
While repartees go smartly round;
Though there content appears to dwell,
Presiding e'er the social scene,
Yet will my wayward thoughts rebel,
And shades of sorrow intervene;
For 'midst it all, I know not why,
I muse and breathe the frequent sigh.

When on some fair one's gentle breast,
Perchance a moment I recline,
My heart the while might surely rest,
And to the winds its woe resign;
Yet, though bewitching smiles allure,
No thrills of love pervade my frame;
Even beauty's presence yields no cure,
For care will still obtrude its claim,
And urge me on, I know not why,
(Though blest I seem) to sadly sigh.
Though sounds melodious do possess
A transient charm, that can compose
The maddening tumults of distress,
And all its wounds of anguish close;
Yet, not to me, can they impart
An antidote to soothe my soul,
For as I list, my restless heart
(Rebellious to their soft controul)
Feels sad, whilst oft, I know not why,
With strange perversity I sigh.

Then since nor wine, nor love has power,
Nor music's most exalted strain,

To charm away the listless hour,
And respite yield to mental pain;
Henceforth, towards heaven my anxious mind
(Its wandering course restrained) shall tend:
Solicitude, when thus refined,

May calmly with religion blend,

And resignation then defy
The sad reflection and the sigh.

Dec. 2, 1818.

D. D.

THE ROSY CHEEK'D LASS THAT LIVED DOWN IN THE VALE.

'TWAS just as the down on my cheek first began To kindle my pride, and proclaim me a man, And beneath the mild radiance of beauty's soft eye, My heart heaved like the sea when the moon smiles on high;

At eve I oft met, and told my fond tale

To the rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

With a tear of delight to those days I recur,

When every thing served to remind me of her;

She was sweet like the woodbine, the rose seemed to blow

But to vie with her cheek of more beautiful glow,

And the nymph in the song, and the maid in the tale, Were that rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

Sometimes when my spirit dejected has been,

I have walk'd down the grove with a sorrowful mien, Yet backward returned through the very same place, With my heart quite at ease, and a smile on my face; Oh what was the charm o'er my grief could prevail? 'Twas my rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

Now reclined in my bower on this fine summer eve,
From all I behold what delight I receive!—

See yon sweet little cherub that flies o'er the green,
So eager to tell what strange sights he has seen!
He is mine, and his mother, who smiles at each tale,
Is the rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.
J. PLAYER.

Newcastle upon Tyne.

STANZAS.

THE summer sun shining on tree and on tower,
And gilding the landscape with radiance divine,
May give joy to the heart o'er which pleasure has

power,

But eve's pensive beauties are dearer to mine.

How soothing alone by a streamlet to wander,
Whose scarce-ruffled face shows the pale evening
moon,

In glory less bright, but more lovely and tender
Than Sol's gaudy beams in the gay hour of noon.
Through trees gently sighing, the cool breeze of Even,
Seems Sympathy's voice to the ear of Despair;
And the dew-drops like tears shed by angels of
Heaven,

Revive the frail hopes in the bosom of care.

But the dew will be dried when the morning returning
Gives life to the busy, the happy, the gay;
And the breeze now so sweetly and tenderly mourning,
By the rude chilling blasts will be driven away.
Thus the hopes I so long and so'fondly have cherish'd,
Are dispelled by the stern voice of merciless scorn;
And the friends who wept with me, like dew-drops
have perished,

While I remain lonely, unpitied, forlorn.

But here though each joy from my heart has been riven,

Soon shall my glad soul from its prison be free; A voice whispers sweetly," Thy rest is in Heaven, On earth nought but misery e'er waited on thee." Blest spirit, I come-how my soul yearns to meet thee;

On earth thou wert dearer to me than the light ;In Heaven with passion eternal I'll greet thee--There sorrow no more shall our happiness blight.

TO MARY.

Dear Mary those lips which once beamed with delight Oft told me thy heart was sincere;

And those eyes which still shine with such lovely blue light,

When I doubted were dimmed by a tear.

Ah! 'twas then in love's early and unclouded morn, When thy thoughts were so careless and gay;

But an evening unlooked for has closed on that dawn, And swept each sweet vision away.

Now sorrow has banished that smile from thine eye, A sad tear reigns alone in its place,

And those love-breathing lips, now alas breathe a sigh, As each tear trickles down thy sweet face.

"Tis duty's stern voice that has caused all thy care, And planted a thorn in thy breast;

Which has driven each once brilliant hope to despair, And wounded the heart 't should have blest.

Yet wipe off that damp mournful gem from thy cheek, And think of thy sorrows no more,

For the dark cloud of woe which thy sad looks bespeak, Will, I trust dearest maid, soon be o'er.