For aiming at a world. 'Creatures,' he said, A portion of his fire)—and on their souls To fires perpetual-and endless fear Sorrow although they loved not-hot desires, What 'twas to hope. Literary Gazette. A REFLECTION. LIKE some faint light that shines along the deep, B. STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. BY HERBERT KNOWLES. It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three Tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias. METHINKS it is good to be here, ST. MATTHEW. If thou wilt let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of Eve that encompass with gloom Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! For see, they would pin him below In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin that but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint 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 Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of 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 Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! They have withered and died, Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve; Which Compassion itself could relieve. Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear, Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 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. Carlisle's Grammar Schools. EPITAPH ON AN IDEOT GIRL. IF the innocent are favourites of Heaven ;- THE MOSSY SEAT. BY J. MOIR, ESQ. THE landscape hath not lost its look; These granite crags, that frown for ever; In mingled echoes steal along; The setting sun is brightly shining, And clouds above, and hills below, Are burning in his golden glow! It is not meet-it is not fit Though fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, Whilst on the very stone I sit, Where first we met, and last we parted, While love's delicious converse blended, What soothing recollections throng, I cannot-Oh! hast thou forgot Our early loves this hallowed spot? I almost think I see thee stand! I almost dream I hear thee speaking!— I feel the pressure of thy hand! Thy living glance in fondness seeking,— Here, all apart by all unseen— Thy form upon my arm to lean! Though beauty bless the landscape still, To whisper things that once delighted; And feel a something sadly sweet In resting on this MOSSY SEAT. Blackwood's Magazine. SONNET. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell |