The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well He sought to clear them—what was toil, that led There's music in that bower, where the wild rose Yes, she is dying! Though so young, and fair, The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb. A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one, Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's gone.) She is within his arms, and they have met! Evelin and Elizabeth? Yes. A flush Of beautiful delight is on her face; He clasps her silently, and his dark eye Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth To think that she again could hear him breathe On her sweet face-'tis fixed and pale in death! L. E. L. PARTING. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. No, never other lip shall press The plighted one where thine hath been; Nor ever other bosom press The heart whereon thy head did lean. Thy smile perchance no more I see,— The very memory of that bliss Shall keep me sacred all to thee. Farewell, farewell! in woe or weal, Though worlds may interpose to sever, After such pang 'tis light to die Matilda, we shall meet in heaven! Literary Gazette. HARK!-'twas the trumpet rung! Of victor, and of vanquished, joined, Is wafted on the vernal gale; And Echo hath combined Her mimic tones, to breathe the tale For Saxon foes invade A proud, but kingless, realm; Content with fettered hand! Not while one patriot breathes,- Some old heroic tale: The Wallace and The Bruce have thrown A trail of glory far behind, The heart, to youth and valour known, Recalls their deeds to mind. The Cumin leaves not home To tell a bloodless tale; And forth, in arms, with Frazer roam In Roslin's wild and wooded glen, The voice of war the shepherd hears; And, in the groves of Hawthornden, Are thrice ten thousand spears, Bright as the cheek of Nature, when Three camps, divided, raise The tongue of mirth is jocund there; Bright eyes that now are glancing fair, Baffled, and backward borne, A third time warlike cheers are raised Blue Esk, with murmuring stream, Between its rocky banks, which seem With beechen groves, and oaken boughs, Athwart the waters, which disclose Its image pictured there. Three triumphs in a day! Three hosts subdued by one! Who, pausing 'mid this solitude, Of rocky streams, and leafy trees,- Or think that aught might here intrude, Roslin, thy castle grey Survives the wrecks of time; And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye, But, when thy battlements shall sink, Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink, The patriot of the land, to think Blackwood's Magazine. EPITAPH ON COWPER. BY LEIGH HUNT. HERE, where thought no more devours, Rests the poet and the man; Life with all its subtle powers, Ending where it first began. Stranger, if thou lov'st a tear, Weep thee o'er his death awhile; If thine eye would still be clear, Think upon his life, and smile. Monthly Mirror. Δ |