From JACQUELINE.

Oh! she was good as she was fair,
None, none on earth above her!

As

pure in thought as angels are—
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
Her every gesture said "Rejoice!
Her coming was a gladness;
And as she grew, her modest grace,
Her downcast look, 'twas heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face,
She half inclined to sadness.

Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted,
Like music to the heart it went ;
And her dark eyes-how eloquent!
Ask what they would, 'twas granted.

He shut the volume with a frown,
To walk his troubled spirit down.

The good are better made by ill,
As odours crushed are sweeter still.

Sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile. Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah! now she murmurs, now she speaks,
What most I wish-and fear to know.

Go-you may call it madness, folly,
You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh! if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

Dear is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

From ITALY.-Bergamo.

Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

ON A TEAR.

Oh that the chemist's magic art
Could crystallize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cellThe spring of Sensibility! . . .

Benign restorer of the soul !

Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law1 which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

NOTE.

Correction from the mathematicians.

1 Those very laws which mould a tear,
And bid it trickle from its source,
Those laws preserve the earth a sphere,

And guide the planets in their course.

A REFLECTION.

This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like,
No fairer spirit in the heaven,
Say, must he know remorse?

. In any of its shapes,

Must passion come,

To cloud and sully what is now so pure?
For who, alas! has lived,

Yes, come it must.

Nor in the watches of the night recalled

Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone?
Yes, come it must. But if, as we may hope,
He learns ere long to discipline his mind,
And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully,
Assisting them that faint, weak though he be,
And in his trying hours trusting in God-
Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still;

For what was Innocence will then be Virtue.

From COLUMBUS. Canto VI.

War and the Great in War let others sing,
Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing;
The morning-march that flashes to the sun,
The feast of vultures when the day is done,
And the strange tale of many slain for one!
I sing a Man, amid his sufferings here,

Who watched and served in humbleness and fear ;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.

FROM THE PERSIAN.

Built on Sir W. Jones's version.

Thee, on thy mother's knees, a new-born child,
In tears we saw when all around thee smiled.
So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep,
Smiles may be thine when all around thee weep.

THOMAS MOORE. [1779-1852

MIRIAM'S SONG.

Exod. xv. 20.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free!
Sing! for the pride of the tyrant is broken;

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave— How vain was their boasting! The Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the

tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free!

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me ;

The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken,

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!