Must these dear tasks of tenderness

No more my blighted bosom bless?

VII.

If thou hast passed from earth,-oh! gaze
Upon me from those realms on high;
A sign-a word-of earlier days

Shall prove thy mandate from the sky
To call me home,-obedient still
In patient duty to thy will.

VIII.

So we might meet,-wer't in the grave
'Twere welcome! But ocean storm
Must o'er thy shroudless relics rave,
While turfen clods will yield my form
A dark-a lonely sepulchre,
Unhallowed by one human tear!

C. G.

EPITAPH.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., POET-LAUREATE.

TIME and the World, whose magnitude and weight
Bear on us in this Now, and hold us here
To earth inthralled,-what are they in the past?
And in the prospect of the immortal soul
How poor a speck! Not here her resting-place;
Her portion is not here: and happiest they
Who, gathering early all that earth can give,
Shake off its mortal coil, and speed for Heaven.
Such fate had he whose relics here repose.
Few were his days; but yet enough to teach
Love, duty, generous feelings, high desires,
Faith, hope, devotion: and what more could length
Of days have brought him? What but vanity;
Joys, frailer even than health or human life;
Temptation; sin and sorrow, both too sure;
Evils that wound, and cares that fret, the heart!
Repine not, therefore, ye who love the dead.

N

SONG.

BY MRS. CHARLES GORE.

I.

He said my brow was fair, 'tis true ;-
He said mine eye had stol'n its blue
From yon ethereal vault above!
Yet still he never spake of love.

II.

He said my step was light, I own ;-
He said my voice had won its tone
From some wild linnet of the grove !

Yet still-he never spake of love.

He said my cheek looked pale with thought;

He said my gentle looks had caught
Their modest softness from the dove!
Yet still-he never spake of love.

IV.

He said that bright with hopes divine The heart should be to blend with mine; Fixed where no stormy passions move! Yet still-he never spake of love.

V.

He said-but wherefore should I tell
Those whispered words I loved so well?
Could I reject-could I reprove―
While still he never spake of love?

ON A BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MISS A.

Painted by Miss Hayter.

It may be I have seen a forehead finer,—
Dark locks wherein more snaky witchery lies;
And somewhat more-no, nought can be diviner
Than the blue meaning of those soft, spring eyes,-
Young,―vernal-looking,—filled with lovely life,
Whose peace surpasseth all we know of strife,
Telling of thoughts all pure and bright within,
Untouched by sorrow, unalloyed by sin.
Such eyes the young and tender Psyche wore,
(Like thee too, painted by a perfect hand);
Such mouth, such air the youthful angels bore,

Ere downwards driven from heaven's cerulean land. Sweet eyes! sweet mouth! and must ye fade ?—'Tis well

The lady-artist with her pencil rare

Hath fixed your beauty on her ivory shell,

To live for aye, with things divine and fair.