THE RETURN FROM INDIA,

WRITTEN BY AN OFFICER, LONG RESIDENT IN INDIA,

ON HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND.

I CAME, but they had passed away—

The fair in form, the pure in mind,—

And like a stricken deer I stray,

Where all are strange, and none are kind,—
Kind to the worn, the wearied soul,

That pants, that struggles for repose:

O! that my steps had reached the goal
Where earthly sighs and sorrows close!

Years have passed o'er me like a dream,
That leaves no trace on memory's page!
I look around me, and I seem

Some relict of a former age.
Alone, as in a stranger clime,

Where stranger voices mock my ear,—
I mark the lagging course of time,
Without a wish—a hope-a fear!

Oh I had hopes-but they are fled!
And I had fears which proved too true!
My wishes too!-but they are dead,—
And what have I with life to do!

"Tis but to bear a weary load,

I may not, dare not, cast away!

To sigh for one small, still abode,

Where I may sleep as sweet as they !

As they, the loveliest of their race!—

Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep;
Whose worth my soul delights to trace,—
Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep;
To weep beneath the silent moon,

With none to chide, to hear, to see!-
Life can bestow no dearer boon,

On one whom death disdains to free.

I leave a world that knows me not,

To hold communion with the dead;
And fancy consecrates the spot,

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.
I see each shade, all silvery white-
I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
I turn to clasp those forms of light,
And the pale morning chills my eye.

But soon the last dim morn shall rise,—
The lamp of life burns feebly now,—
When stranger hands shall close my eyes,
And smooth my cold and dewy brow.
Unknown I live;-so let me die ;-
Nor stone, nor monumental cross,
Tell where his nameless ashes lie,

Who sighed for GOLD, and found it DROSS,
London Magazine.

SONG.

THE ring you gave, the kiss you gave,
The curl of raven hair,-

Pledges of truth and gifts of love,—
Where are they now ?-Oh where !

The ring is broken, and by whom?
The kiss has been profaned;

And many, many, bitter tears

That shining curl have stained !—

Yes, each and all are wholly changed!—
More changed they could not be ;

But the worst change is that which time,

False one! has wrought in thee.

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

L

TO THE PLANET JUPITER.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

I LOOKED on thee, Jove, till my gaze
Sank, smote from the pomp of thy blaze;
For in heaven, from the sunset's red throne
To the zenith-thy rival was none.

From thy orb rushed a torrent of light,
That made the stars dim in thy sight,
And the half-risen moon seemed to die,
And to leave thee the realm of the sky.

I looked on the ocean's broad breast-
The purple was pale in the west;
But down shot thy long silver spire,
And the waves were like arrows of fire.

I turned from the infinite main,

And thy light was the light of the plain, "Twas the beacon that blazed on the hill :— Thou wert proud, pure, magnificent still.

A cloud spread its wing over heaven ;—
By the shaft of thy splendour 'twas riven,
And I saw thy bright front through it shine
Like a God from the depth of his shrine.

But, planet of glory and awe,
It was not thy lustre I saw,

For my soul was absorbed in the night
When last I had gazed on thy light.

I thought of the hand I had held,
Of the heart by that soft hand revealed,
Of the eye fixed with mine on thy beam,
And the world was forgot in my dream.

Flame on then, thou king of the sky,
For thy brightness is joy to my eye;
For this hour thou art beaming above
The home of my wife and my love.
Literary Gazette.

STANZAS,

BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ.

On receiving from Dr. Rush, of Philadelphia, a piece of the Tree, under which William Penn made his Treaty with the Indians, converted to the purpose of an Inkstand.

FROM clime to clime, from shore to shore,
The war-fiend raised his hated yell,
And midst the storm that realms deplore,
Penn's honoured tree of Concord fell;
And of that tree, that ne'er again

Shall Spring's reviving influence know.
A relic o'er the Atlantic main,

Was sent the gift of foe to foe!
But though no more its ample shade,
Wave green beneath Columbia's sky,
Though every branch be now decayed,
And all its scattered leaves be dry,
Yet midst the relic's sainted space,
A health-restoring blood shall spring,
In which the angel-form of Peace

May stoop to dip her dove-like wing.
So once the staff the prophet bore,

By wondering eyes again was seen
To swell with life through every pore,
And bud afresh with foliage green.
The withered branch again shall grow,
Till o'er the earth its shade extend-
And this the gift of foe to foe-
Becomes the gift of friend to friend.

LINES ON A SKULL.

BEHOLD this ruin !-"Twas a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full!

This narrow cell was life's retreat;

This space was thought's mysterious seat;—
What beauteous pictures filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!

Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy,
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void,
If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye
shall be for ever bright,

When stars and suns have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern, hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood's honey it disdained,

And where it could not praise, was chained,

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,—

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee

When death unveils eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, or wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them ;
But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.