Pale flowers! Pale perishing flowers! 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, Formed for each dear delight by man enjoyed, O soul of tenderness! though thou art flown, 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!' Taint the shore. No voice of life was there! Where they lie. 'Rule Britannia' sung the crew Ne'er had failed. Bright rose the laughing morn, (That morn that sealed her doom ;) And the storm-lights faintly burn, As they toss upon her stern Mid the gloom. From the lonely beacon's height, High the eddying mists are whirled Through the storms. O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, 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'- Scars the sands with countless graves Album. AN APOLOGUE. BY T. GASPY, ESQ. TWAS eight o'clock, and near the fire 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,'- With tearful eye and aching heart; 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, The follies and the fears of man. When doomed to slumber with the dead.' And more I thought-when up the stairs His playthings carefully he kept. When nature claims their forfeit breath, 'Tis morn, and see my smiling boy EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK. ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow, |