The anguish, whose convulsive start Beleaguered Nature's strife to view, And every pang so keenly share, In that dark hour, when every tie, When life itself was all but riven, Thou stood'st a guardian angel by. That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven. Or, with unwearied labour, prest The 'nerve where agonies were born,' Soothing my midnights—not of rest— Nor anxious for relief at morn. And she one other not less dear, Like chords in music's holiest mood, Mingling, but sweeter from controul, Twin forms of mercy! there ye stood, Breathing one fond, devoted soul! Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath, Can match the purity, the faith, Take, thou, the fond return of mine, 'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give,— Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine, And life itself it must outlive. A DRINKING SONG. BY LORD BYRON. FILL the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ! Let us drink!-Who would not? Since through life's varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved!-Who has not ?-But what tongue will declare, That pleasure existed whilst passion was there! In the bright days of youth-when the heart's in its spring, I had friends!-Who has not ?-But what tongue will avow The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange; Friendship shifts with the sun-beam ;-thou never can'st change! Thou grow'st old!-Who does not ?-But on earth what appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years. Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, We are jealous!-Who's not ?-Thou hast no such alloy, Then the season of Youth and its jollities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find-Do we not ?—In the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore is confined to the bowl. When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left!-Was she not ?-But the goblet we kiss, Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own; We must die!-Who shall not ?-May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven! ЕРІТАРН, ON JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. Ir ever lot was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,-- Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, The happy grateful spirit that improves, And brightens every gift by fortune given, All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this stone, Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,— That ye, like him may live, like him may die. Morning Chronicle. A RECOLLECTION. BY J. MOIR, ESQ. SHE was a thing of morn-with the soft calm Like winds from summer waves, its heaven from that sweet face. As one who looks on landscapes beautiful, Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've strayed, Then came Consumption with her languid moods, Paled like the second Bow; yet would she speak She died in the bud of Being,—in the spring, The loved of Heaven, ere yet the hand of Care Or Time's hoar frost come down to blanch the hair, The pangs that pass not by the wounds that never heal! They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead, Shed o'er her lovely sleep its latest gleam; INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MATTHIAS. BY THE REV. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. HERE in these groves, of every Muse the haunt, Then, Stranger, whether from the icy pole- |