Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only,

I resign me to my fate.

Chains that bind the soul I've proven
Strong as they were iron-woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending

From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts, as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb. Without Clifford not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!—a straw within the balance,

Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: Kindred-friendship-beauty-talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, As solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown-away disguises

Nought but death relief can give—

For the love he little prizes

Cannot cease and Julia live!

Soon my thread of life will sever—
Clifford, fare thee well-for ever!

THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED

FRIEND.

BY JOHN INMAN.

LOVED, lost one, fare thee well-too harsh the doom
That called thee thus in opening life away;
Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb
I come at each return of this blest day,
When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,
The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,
For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone
Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.

But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings
Thy form before me as in life it came;
Affection conquers death, and fondly clings

Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;
And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,
While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,
With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,
Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.
Sunday Evening.

SONG.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

A CARELESS, Simple bird, one day

Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers,

Fell in a cruel trap, which lay

All hid among the flowers,

Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,
He knew not what to do,
Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,
At length away he flew,

Unhurt at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret
And idle anguish free,

He, singing, says, "You need not set
Another trap for me,

False girl! another trap for me.”

ANACREONTIC.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

BLAME not the Bowl-the fruitful Bowl! Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll,

To bathe young Love's delighted wing.

What like the grape Osiris gave

Makes rigid age so lithe of limb?
Illumines Memory's tearful wave,

And teaches drowning Hope to swim?
Did Ocean from his radiant arms
To earth another Venus give,

He ne'er could match the mellow charms
That in the breathing beaker live.

MELODY.

Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard
In characters that mock the sight,
Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured,
Brings all their hidden warmth to light-
Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,
Though graven deep, appear but dim,
Till filled with glowing Bacchus up,
They sparkle on the foaming brim.
Each drop upon the first you pour
Brings some new tender thought to life,
And as you fill it more and more,
The last with fervid soul is rife.

The island fount, that kept of old
Its fabled path beneath the sea,
And fresh, as first from earth it rolled,
From earth again rose joyously;

Bore not beneath the bitter brine,

Each flower upon its limpid tide,
More faithfully than in the wine,

Our hearts will toward each other glide.
Then drain the cup, and let thy soul
Learn, as the draught delicious flies,
Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl,
Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

MELODY.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

IF yon bright stars, which gem the night,
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,

Where kindred spirits re-unite

Whom death has torn asunder here,

173

How sweet it were at once to die,
And leave this blighted orb afar,
Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,
And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If wandering through each radiant one
We failed to find the loved of this;
If there no more the ties shall twine

That death's cold hand alone could sever;
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful as they shine for ever.

It cannot be each hope, each fear,

That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now.
There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain ; "Tis heaven that whispers-Dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

COLUMBIA, was thy continent stretched wild,
In later ages, the huge seas above?
And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child,
Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love?