REPROACH ME NOT. OH! gentle shade,-reproach me not, However wild the revelry. For o'er the silent goblet, thou Art still remembered, and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow; And I am lone, while all are loud. Reproach me not,-Reproach me not To think on joys which but have been ; Must haunt my life, and speed my fall! I think on thee,-I think and sigh,- That gives a loveliness to pain ; The faults this wretched breast hath known! Had fate allowed thee but to live, Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shewn. Thy friends are fading from my sight, From this dark world,-since thou art gone! I need no friend to share my woe!— I love to weep apart,—alone. Thy picture! It is life, health,-love,- O'er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain, Came beaming from those eyes again! In my dark heart thy image glows, In shape and light divinely fair ;— Youth sketched the form, when free from woes, In revelry 'tis still with me ; In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, My heart beats still the same to thee :— St. James's Chronicle. FROM ANACREON. THE girls with laughing faces, For me, nor know, nor care I, C. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory: VIRGIL'S TOMB. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. BENEATH the shelter of a mighty hill, Whose marble peaks were garlanded with vine, And musical with many a sunny rill, That thro' its purple, clustered shades did twine, Bright as a summer serpent's golden spine, Leaned a low temple, in the sweet, grey gloom, Hoary with moss, like Age in calm decline. With, here and there, a rose's lingering bloom, Wreathed loving round its brow ;-that temple is a tomb! There sleeps the Mantuan! There the subtlest hand That ever wakened Passion's lyre, is laid. Oh! Master-genius of thy glorious Land! When when shall Italy her tresses braid With the bright flowers, that round thy forehead played ? Look not upon the slave; sleep, Virgil, in thy tomb! THE MOSLEM BRIDAL SONG. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THERE is a radiance in the sky, It is a lovely hour!-Though heaven But there are sounds along the gale,— 'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now Pour out the train, white veiled, like snow H |