Pale flowers! Pale perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath—

I leave the summer rose

For younger, blither brows;

Tell me of change and death.

Blackwood's Magazine.

TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER.

BY MRS. HUNTER.

'Tis not thy Muse, though tuneful is her song,
That draws me, Cowper, weeping to thy tomb;
Nor could thy Grecian lore thy fame prolong
In memory, through time's revolving gloom,
Were not thy gifts of nature, and of art,
Joined to the treasure of a feeling heart.

Formed for each dear delight by man enjoyed,
For love, for friendship, and each social tie,
The nipping blast of fate thy hopes destroyed,
And in the bud thy rose was doomed to die:
Friendship remained, and there thy lot was blessed,
Of every heart, as soon as known, possessed.

O soul of tenderness! though thou art flown,
Still shall thy fair example teach the age,

That gentle sympathies perform alone

More than e'er wit or wisdom taught the sage :— They bind in bonds of love the captive will, In sickness, sorrow, death, unchanging still!

English Minstrelsy.

C.

STANZAS

ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH.

BY THOMAS SHERIDAN, ESQ.

'BRITANNIA rules the waves!'
Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves
Where Lough-Swilly's billow raves,
And three hundred British graves

Taint the shore.

No voice of life was there!
"Tis the dead that raise that cry;
The dead, who raised no prayer
As they sunk in wild despair,
Chaunt in scorn that boastful air,

Where they lie.

'Rule Britannia' sung the crew
When the stout Saldanah sailed;
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which in battle to subdue

Ne'er had failed.

Bright rose the laughing morn,

(That morn that sealed her doom ;)
Dark and sad is her return,

And the storm-lights faintly burn,

As they toss upon her stern

Mid the gloom.

From the lonely beacon's height,
As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw their flashing light

High the eddying mists are whirled
As they rear their giant forms ;
See! their tempest flag's unfurled,—
Fierce they sweep the prostrate world,
And the withering lightning's hurled

Through the storms.

O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commissioned watch to keep;

Down, down, with thundering roar,

The exulting demons pour.

The Saldanah floats no more

O'er the deep!

The dreadful hest is past !—

All is silent as the grave;

One shriek was first and last

Scarce a death sob drunk the blast,

As sunk her towering mast

Beneath the wave.

'Britannia rules the waves'-
O vain and impious boast!
Go mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He, who sinks or saves,

Scars the sands with countless graves
Round your coast.

Album.

AN APOLOGUE.

BY T. GASPY, ESQ.

TWAS eight o'clock, and near the fire
My ruddy little boy was seated;
And with the titles of a sire,

My ears expected to be greeted.

But vain the thought! By sleep oppressed, No father there the child descried;

His head reclined upon his breast,

Or nodding, rolled from side to side.

'Let this young rogue be sent to bed,'-
More I had not had time to say,
When the poor urchin raised his head
To beg that he might longer stay.
Refused; away his steps he bent,

With tearful eye and aching heart;
But claimed his playthings ere he went,
And took up stairs his horse and cart.

Still for delay, though oft denied,

He pleaded ;—wildly craved the boon ;— Though past his usual hour, he cried

At being sent to bed so soon! If stern to him, his grief I shared, (Unmoved who sees his offspring weep?)

Of soothing him I half despaired,

When all his cares were lost in sleep.

'Alas poor infant!' I exclaimed,
'Thy father blushes now to scan
In all that he so lately blamed

The follies and the fears of man.
The vain regret-the anguish brief—
What thou hast known sent up to bed,
Pourtrays of man the idle grief

When doomed to slumber with the dead.'

And more I thought-when up the stairs
With longing, lingering looks, he crept;
To mark of man the childish cares,

His playthings carefully he kept.
Thus mortals in life's later stage,

When nature claims their forfeit breath,
Still grasp at wealth, in pain and age,
And cling to golden toys in death!

'Tis morn, and see my smiling boy
Awakes to hail returning light;
To fearless laughter, boundless joy!
Forgot the tears of yesternight!
Thus shall not man forget his woe,-
Survive of age and death the gloom,
Smile at the cares he knew below,
And, renovated, burst the tomb?
Literary Gazette.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE GREEK.

ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow,
No chaplet bloom—no lamp suspended glow ;
Vain cost! while yet I live, these honours pay,
Wine can but moisten ashes into clay.