WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND,

YORKSHIRE.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three Tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

ST. MATTHEW.

But the shadows of Eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away,—

For see, they would pin him below

In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
The charms which She wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed

Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ;

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid

Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! They have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:

Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear,
Peace! peace! is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Carlisle's Grammar Schools.

EPITAPH

ON AN IDEOT GIRL.

If the innocent are favourites of Heaven ;—
And God but little asks where little's given,
Thy great Creator hath for thee in store
Eternal joys. What wise man can have more?

BY JOSEPH RITCHIE, ESQ.

THY chalky cliffs are fading from my view,
Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea,

I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu,
Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee,
Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy,
Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight,
Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me
The food of my soul's youthful appetite,—
Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight.

I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold,
Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye;
I never mused on valour, but the old
Memorials of thy haughty chivalry

Filled my expanding soul with extasy;

And when I thought on wisdom and the crown
The muses give, with exultation high,

I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown.

When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour,
At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm,

Her voice came to me from an English bower,

And English were the smiles that wrought the charm; And if, when wrapt asleep on Fancy's arm, Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered, Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm, For one by absence and long toil endeared, The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared.

Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone;
And mayest thou still thy ancient dowry keep,
To be a mark to guide the nations on,

Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep ;

Still mayest thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep,
And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night

That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep
Starting, remotest nations see the light,

And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might.

Strong in thy strength I go, and wheresoe'er My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget All that I owe to thee; and O may ne'er My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt! And what, if far from thee my star must set, Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's desarts drear.

Yet I will not profane a charge like mine,
With melancholy bodings, nor believe,
That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine
Of my own heart, spake only to deceive;

I trust its promise, that I go to weave

A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave Of all its fragrance, that I yet shall greet Once more the ocean queen, and throw it at her feet. London Magazine.

THE EXCHANGE.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,-
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,

But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

ON PAINTING.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

O, thou! by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees
In union with the Graces, start,
And sweeter by reflection please!
In whose creative hand the hues
Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine!
I bless thee, Promethean Muse,
And hail thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than mortal power!
Persuasive more than poet's tongue!
Whose lineage in a raptured hour,

From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung!
Does Hope her high possession meet?
Is joy triumphant,-sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet,
When all we love is all our own.

But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear;
Slow, throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart;
Then for a beam of joy, to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye;
To banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall song its witching cadence roll;

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat;

What visions rise to charm, to melt!

The lost, the loved, the dead are near; Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt, And cease that solace too severe.