And tell her, Darwent, as you murmur bye, How in these wilds with hopeless love I burn, Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh, And mix my briny sorrows with your urn! Anon. 6 THE SAILOR BOY'S ADIEU. The boatswain's shrill whistle piped all hands ahoy, When pale turned the cheek of the poor sailor boy, And was it dismay that affected his breast, Or dread of the deep, that pervaded his feelings? Ah no! 'twas a passion more keenly exprest, "Twas the throb of affection-'twas nature's appealings? To home and to kindred he'd bidden farewell! He strove his sensations to smother, But memory had bound round his bosom her spell, And he mused on the words of his mother! My hope is thy conduct, thy father is dead, Be true to thy king, and ne'er shrink from thy duty; The furrows of age on my temples are spread, Thy sister has nought but her virtue and beauty. The sailor boy's cheek was bedewed with a tear, With hearty huzzas his young bosom they cheer, Aloft up the shrouds to his duty he flew, His heart glowed with courage, all obstacles braving, From his neck his dear sister's last token he drew, The pledge of her love, from the top gallant waving. G. Lewis. EXTRACT FROM CHILDE HAROLD. Is thy face like thy mother's! my fair child! Awaking with a start The waters heave around me; and on high Whither I know not-but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Yet once more upon the waters, yet once more! Hung from a rock, on ocean's foam to sail, Where'er the surge may sweep-the tempest's breath pre vail. Byron. SPEECH OF AN OLD OAK IN THE PLEASURE GROUND AT Stranger, if peace delights your cultured mind -Beats thy young heart with finer feelings, warm? For Virtue, guest celestial, guards the glades, And youth and beauty stray beneath my shades. ON THE NEW YEAR. Blest opening of another year Thy cheerful sounds dispel the fear When launching on an unknown sea, That skirts a near eternity, I see the billows roll. How darkly roll; though snowy crests Edge the blue waves, their gloomy breasts Heave heavily along: And vainly scans my feeble thought, What the year's changes will have wrought, If God my life prolong. How low my joys may ebb; my woe How high its rising tide may flow, I leave to thy command: Anon. This, this shall silence all my fears, Anon. ON A TOMB-STONE IN IRELAND. A little spirit slumbers here, Who to one heart was very dear, Oh! he was more than life or light, Its thought by day-its dream by night. The chill winds came -the young flower faded And died the grave its sweetness shaded. Fair boy! thou shouldst have wept for me, Anon. |