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Of her, of whom these pictured lines Ah! then perchance this dreaming strain, A faint resemblance form;

Of all that e'er I sung, -Fair as the second rainbow shines

A loro memorial may remain, Aloof amid the storm;

When silent lies my tongue ; Of Her, this “ shadow of a shade,"

When shot the meteor of my fame, Like its original must fade,

Lost the vain echo of my name, And She, forgotten when unseen,

This leaf, this fallen leaf, may be Shall be as if she ne'er had been.

The only trace of her and me.”

AN AFTER-THOUGHT. " With One who lived of old, my song When these weak lines thy presence In lowly cadence rose;

greet, To One who is unborn, belong

Reader! if I am blest, The accents of its close:

Again, as spirits may we meet Ages to come, with courteous ear,

In glory and in rest: Some youth my warning voice may If not, -and I have lost my way, hear;

Here part we;-go not Thou astray ; And voices from the dead should be No tomb, no verse my story tell! The warnings of eternity.

Once, and for ever, fare Thee well."

I have just time to point out the “ Little Cloud” as one of the most finished pieces I know; and extract part of a patriotic effusion addressed to Britain :

" I love thee, O my native Isle: Till, rapt on visionary wings, Dear as my mother's earliest sinile ; High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings; Sweet as my father's voice to me

For I, among thy living choir,
Is all I hear, and all I see,

I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.
When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,

I love thee, when I contemplate
The guardian angels of thy coast, The full-orb’grandeur of thy state ;
Who watch the dear domestic Host," Thy laws and liberties, that rise,
The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
Around the quiet heaven of home. To which the Pyramids were tame,

And Grecian temples bow their fame; I love thee,when I mark thy soil These, thine immortal sages wrought Flourish beneath the peasant's toil, Out of the deepest mines of thought! And from its lap of verdure throw

These, on the scaffold, in the field, Treasures which neither Indies know.

Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd ;

These, at the parricidal pyre, I love thee,-when I hear around Thy martyrs sanctified in fire, Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, And, with the generous blood they spilt, Thine engines heaving all their force, Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' Thy waters labouring on their course,

guilt, And arts, and industry, and wealth Canceli'd the curse which vengeance Exulting in the joys of health.

sped,

And left a blessing in its stead: I love thee,-when I trace thy tale, --Can words, caň numbers count the To the dim point where records fail;

price Thy deeds of old renown inspire

Paid for this little paradise ? My bosom with our fathers' fire;

Never, oh! never be it lost;
A proud inheritance I claim

The land is worth the price it cost.
In all their sufferings, all their fame;
Nor less delighted when I stray

I love thee,when thy sabbath Down history's lengthening, widening

dawns way,

O’er woods and mountains, dales and And hail thee in thy present hour,

lawns, From the meridian arch of power, And streams that sparkle while they run, Shedding the lustre of thy reign,

As if their fountain were the sun: Like sunshine, over land and main. When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair

Each to their chosen house of prayer, I love thee, when I read the lays And all in peace and freedom call Of British bards in elder days,

On Him, who is the Lord of all.

W.

The County Ball.

Busy people, great and small,
Awkward dancers, short and tall,
Ladies, fighting which shall call,
Loungers, perily quizzing all.---ANON.

This is a night of pleasure! Care,
I shake thee from me! do not dare
To stir from out thy murky cell,
Where, in their dark recesses, dwell
Thy kindred Gnomes, who love to nip
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip,
Until, beneath their venom'd breath,
Life wears the pallid hue of Death.
Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care !
The gay, the youthful, and the fair,
From “ Lodge,” and “ Court,” and “ House,” and

“ Hall,"
Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground,
And giddy Pleasure draws around,
To shield us from thine envious spite,
Her magic circle ! nought to-night
Over that guarded barrier flies
But laughing lips and smiling eyes;
My look shall gaze around me free,
And like my look my line shall be;
While Fancy leaps in every vein,
While love is life, and thought is pain,
I will not rule that look and line
By any word or will of thine.

The Moon hath risen! Still and pale
Thou movest in thy silver veil,
Queen of the night; the filmy shroud
Of many a mild transparent cloud
Hides, yet adorns, thee-meet disguise
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes.
Full many a maid hath lov'd to gaze
Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond despairing youth
Hath breath'd to thee his tale of truth;

And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath look'd upon thy tender light,
And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In Ode, or Elegy, or Sonnet.
Alas! at this inspiring hour
I feel not, I, thy boasted power!
Nor seek to gain thine approbation
By vow, or prayer, or invocation ;
I ask not what the vapours are,
That veil thee like a white cymar; '
Nor do I care a single straw
For all the stars I ever saw !
I Ay from thee, I fly from these,
To bow to earthly Goddesses,
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine
As fair, but not so cold, as thine !

But this is foolish! Stars and Moon, You look quite beautiful in June ; But, when a Bard sits down to sing, Your beauty is a dangerous thing; To muse upon your placid beam One wanders sadly from one's theme, And when weak poets go astray, The Stars are more in fault than they. * The Moon is charming ! so, perhaps, Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a Ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place.

I love a Ball! there's such an air Of magic in the lustres' glare, And such a spell of witchery In all I hear, and all I see, That I can read in every dance Some relique sweet of old romance : .. As fancy wills, I laugh and smile, , And talk such nonsense all the while, That when Dame Reason rules again, And morning cools my heated brain, Reality itself doth seem Nought but the pageant of a dream : : In raptures deep I gaze, as now, On smiling lip, and tranquil brow,

** And when weak women go astray,

The Stars are more in fault than they."

While merry voices echo round,
And music's most inviting sound
Swells on mine ear; and glances fly,
And love and folly flutter high,
And many a fair romantic cheek,
Redden'd with pleasure or with pique,
Glows with a sentimental flush,
That seems a bright unfading blush ; .
And slender arms before my face -
Are rounded with a statue's grace;
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet
Swifter than lightning part and meet ;
Frowns come and go; white hands are pressed,
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed,
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright, si
And tongues are free, and hearts are light.

Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
Secure in some sequester'd nook,
And while from thence I look and listen,
Though ladies' eyes so gaily glisten,
Though ladies' locks so lightly float,
Though music pours her mellowed note,
Some little spite will oft intrude,
Upon my merry solitude.

By turns the ever-varying scene
Awakes within me mirth and spleen;
By turns the gay and vain appear-
By turns I love to smile and sneer,
Mixing my malice with my glee,
Good humour with misanthropy :
And while my raptur'd eyes adore
Half the bright forms that fit before,
I notice with a little laugh
The follies of the other half.
That little laugh will oft call down,
From matron sage, rebuke and frown; -
Little in truth for these I.care- .4...
By Momus and his mirth I swear!
For all the dishes Rowley tastes, ; ,,,
For all the paper Courtenay wastes, - ;..
For all the punch his subjects quaff, j .
I would not change that little laugh. .

Hoc ego opertum,"
Hoc ridere meum, tam nil, nulla tibi vendo
Iliade.

PERS.

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Sir Paul is young in all but years ; And when his courteous face appears, The maiden wall-flowers of the room Admire the freshness of his bloom, Hint that his face has made him vain, And vow" he grows a boy again;" And giddy girls of gay fifteen Mimic his manner and his mien, And when the supple Politician Bestows his bow of recognition, Or forces on th' averted ear The flattery it affects to fear; They look, and laugh behind the fan, And dub Sir Paul “ the young old man.”

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