BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.

Nor in envy, ire, or grief,
Bid I now the Muse farewell;
"T is no childish fancy brief,
Lured away by newer spell;
As of earthly good the chief,

I have sought her long and well.

Not in anger;-inward joys

Have been mine, and meed of praise,Payment vast for idle toys,

Fleeting, unsubstantial lays ; Sandy columns wind destroys, And that wind again can raise.

No, nor yet in grief we part,-
Never unto bard like me,
Gave the Muse a broken heart;
'Tis to nobler votaries, she
Doth that awful gift impart,—
Pledge of immortality!

Not in envy;-though around,
Like the stars, a radiant throng,
In their several orbits found,

I behold the sons of song,-
Every brow with laurel bound,
And a few as giants strong.

Not in envy ;-though I know

Neither wreath nor radiance mine;

I will yet pay homage low,

Pilgrim-like, at every shrine;

Seek where buds and blossoms grow,

And for others garlands twine.

Never hath my Muse bereaved me,
Song hath lightened hours of pain;
Never Poet yet deceived me,

Truer friend I scarce could gain;

Ne'er among the things that grieved me,
Ranked the minstrel lute and strain.

Yet I bid the art adieu,

It may be, adieu for ever;

I abjure the Syren too,

Vain, I own, my best endeavour;
Weak to grasp, though keen to view,
Climbing alway-rising never.

Though I smite the rock of song,

At my stroke no stream will flow,-
At my spell no spirits strong

Bidden come, or mastered go;
Nor the world of passion throng
With its wild waves to and fro.

Farewell Muse!—vouchsafing never
But dim glance and veiled brow;
Farewell Lute!-a rude toy ever,

Broken, stringless, soon art thou;
Farewell Song!-thy last notes quiver,-
Muse,-Lute,-Music,-farewell now!

Literary Souvenir.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 't is true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm ;

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell:

I thought it delightful your beauties to find

When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore.

What landscape I read in the primrose's looks;
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangle the shore.

Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

New Monthly Magazine.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

WHY do I weep?—to leave the vine,
Whose clusters o'er me bend?
The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mine!
The flowers I loved to tend?
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep,
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh! therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister—we have played
Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower!
Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,

Have been as we may be no more-
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father!-Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,

With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,

Thy homeward steps to greet!

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye

o'er all my youth hath smiled,—

I leave thee!-let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee !-on thy breast,

Pouring out joy and woe,

I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless-yet I go!

Lips that have lulled me with your strain,
Eyes that have watched my sleep;

Will earth give love like yours again?—

Sweet mother, let me weep!

Morning Chronicle.

HOLYROOD.

THE moonlight fell like pity o'er the walls
And broken arches, which the conqueror, Time,
Had rode unto destruction; the grey moss
A silver cloak, hung lightly o'er the ruins;
And nothing came upon the soul but soft,
Sad images. And this was once a palace,
Where the rich viol answered to the lute,
And maidens flung the flowers from their hair
Till the halls swam with perfume: here the dance
Kept time with light harps, and yet lighter feet;
And here the beautiful Mary kept her court,
Where sighs and smiles made her regality,
And dreamed not of the long and many years
When the heart was to waste itself away
In hope, whose anxiousness was as a curse:
Here, royal in her beauty and her power,
The prison and the scaffold, could they be
But things whose very name was not for her?
And this, now fallen sanctuary, how oft
Have hymns and incense made it holiness ;
How oft, perhaps, at the low midnight hour,
Its once fair mistress may have stol'n to pour
At its pure altar, thoughts which have no vent,
But deep and silent prayer; when the heart finds
That it may not suffice unto itself,

But seeks communion with that other state,
Whose mystery to it is as a shroud

In which it may conceal its strife of thought,
And find repose.

But it is utterly changed:
No incense rises, save some chance wild-flower
Breathes grateful to the air; no hymn is heard,
No sound, but the bat's melancholy wings;
And desolation breathes from all around.