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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;
Spread not those white arms in air;
Fling those roses from thy hair;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals beat;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff;
Hear my voice of warning, hear,-
Stay thee on thy mad career!

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,
There is writ thy destiny!

Clouds have veiled the new moonlight;
Stars have fallen from their height;
These are emblems of the fate
That waits thee-dark and desolate !
All morn's lights are now thine own,
Soon their glories will be gone;
What remains when they depart ?
Faded hope, and withered heart :
Like a flower with no perfume
To keep a memory of its bloom!

Look upon that hour-marked round,
Listen to that fateful sound;
There my silent hand is stealing,
My more silent course revealing;
Wild, devoted PLEASURE, hear,-
Stay thee on thy mad career!
Literary Gazette.

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,
I dare not bid thee stay.

The heart may shrink, the spirit fail,
But Spaniards must be free!
And pride and duty shall prevail

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
In Manuel's joyful eyes.

A HIGHLAND HUSBAND'S GIFT.

WEAR thy mountain's diamond, fairest !

In thy waving hair;

It will noblest seem, and rarest
If it sparkles there;

For only this dark gem can vie

With those brown tresses' burnished dye,
And well the elves that guard it know,

If it might touch thy spotless brow,

For ever in thy memory

Thy wedded love would living be.

Or hanging on thy ear, dearest,
A moment let it shine;
Then in every voice thou hearest
Shall seem a sound of mine-
Yet no ;-for never by the tone
Of silver words was true love known;

I would not tax thy soul to give
The fondness that on words can live.

But place it on thy hand, sweetest,
Clasped with the holy gold,

And when a stranger's hand thou meetest,
Thine shall be winter-cold;

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,
My image shall be there;

For it has spells more deep and strong
When hid its native snows among;
And it shall have most power to bless
Where all is power and holiness.
European Magazine.

THE POET.

V.

Oн say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,
That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt;
Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire,

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;
The red fires that gleam on the summit are those
That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed.

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings,
Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;
No note of wild music is swept from the strings,
But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,
That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;
Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;
For the pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.
Literary Gazette.

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
Had linked us to one mutual fate:
I gaze around me-where art thou,

Whose glance was sunshine to the spot?
These roses bloomed, as they bloom now,
But thou art-where-I see thee not!

Oh! never more-oh! never more
This earth again shall smile for me!
I'll listen to the tempest's roar,—
Or gaze along the stormy sea,-
And from the sunshine I will hide,-
But, as the moon in silver gleams,
I'll lean me o'er the vessel's side,

And see thee in my waking dreams.

Then welcome be the doom that calls

To foreign climes my wandering way:
These echoing walks and empty halls,
The blosmy lilac on its spray.-
The lily in its innocence,-

The fleur-de-lis with purple vest,—
Pine for thee, vanished far from hence,
Removed from earth, and laid to rest.

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