TIME ARRESTING THE CAREER OF PLEASURE. FROM A DRAWING BY R. DAGLEY. STAY thee on thy wild career, Other sounds than mirth's are near; Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now, Roses laugh upon thy brow; Radiant are thy starry eyes; Spring is in the crimson dyes O'er which thy dimpled smile is wreathing; Incense on thy lip is breathing; Light and Love are round thy soul, But thunder-peals o'er June-skies roll; Even now the storm is near Then stay thee on thy mad career! Raise thine eyes to yonder sky, Clouds have veiled the new moonlight; Look upon that hour-marked round, L. E. L. THE SPANISH MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. BY MATILDA BETHAM. MANUEL, I do not shed a tear Our parting to delay; I dare not listen to my fear, The heart may shrink, the spirit fail, O'er all my love for thee. Then go; and round that gallant head, Like banners in the air, Shall float full many a daring hope, And many a tender prayer. Should freedom perish-at thy death "Twere madness to repine; And I should every feeling lose, Except the wish for mine. But if the destiny of Spain Be once again to rise! O! grant me heaven! to read the tale A HIGHLAND HUSBAND'S GIFT. WEAR thy mountain's diamond, fairest ! In thy waving hair; It will noblest seem, and rarest For only this dark gem can vie With those brown tresses' burnished dye, If it might touch thy spotless brow, For ever in thy memory Thy wedded love would living be. Or hanging on thy ear, dearest, I would not tax thy soul to give But place it on thy hand, sweetest, And when a stranger's hand thou meetest, And thou shalt lute and tablet take In bower or chamber for my sake; And it shall teach thy pen to shew How thought should speak when speech is true. Then hide it in thy breast, dearest ! If it be pure as fair, When to thy heart this gem is nearest, For it has spells more deep and strong THE POET. V. Oн say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre, Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt. It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray Of sunset can image the soul of the bard; The light of the evening around them may play, But the frost-work beneath is, though bright, cold and hard. 'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows, Where the minstrel may find his own semblance pourtrayed; Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings, Then say not his love is a fugitive fire, L. E. L. TO THE MEMORY OF IDA. Oh! what are thousand living loves To one, that cannot quit the dead.-BYRON. WELL-though the clouds of sorrow haste, With darkening gloom, and threatening roll, To blight existence to a waste, And shut out sunshine from my soul, Departed Ida! rather far My musing thought would dwell on thee, Than join the mirthful, and the jar Of voices loud, and spirits free. Sad alteration!-Here alone, Where we so oft together sate, With hearts, where love's commingling tone Whose glance was sunshine to the spot? Oh! never more-oh! never more And see thee in my waking dreams. Then welcome be the doom that calls To foreign climes my wandering way: The fleur-de-lis with purple vest,— |