He starts, he wakes to woe-
e-before him stands
The' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents bid the exiled chief
Seek, far on other shores, a home for grief.

Silent the wanderer sat-but on his cheek

The burning glow, far more than words might speak ;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language, where all the' indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice-then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, 'Return!

Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen

Marius the exile rest where Carthage once hath been!' Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

LOVE'S LAST WORDS.

LIGHT be around thee, hope be thy guide;
Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide ;
Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,
Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.

Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best
Greet the long-absent again to his rest;

Be thy life like glad music which floateth away
As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May.

But yet while thy moments in melody roll,
Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,

Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear—
Then think how your twilights were past away here.

And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be
Light as the dream of the morning to thee!
One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine
May be granted to love so devoted as mine!
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

ERATO,

FROM A PAINTING BY J. STOTHARD.

GENTLEST one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipped queen of poesy,

Sweet ERATO, thou whose chords
Waken but for love-touched words!
Never other crown be mine

Than a flower-linked wreath of thine:
Green leaves of the laurel tree
Are for bards of high degree;
Better rose or violet suit
With thy votary's softer lute.
Not thine those proud lines that tell
How kings ruled, or heroes fell;
But that low and honey tone
So peculiarly Love's own;
Music such as the night breeze
Wakens from the willow trees;
Such as murmurs from the shell,
Wave-kissed in some ocean cell;
Tales sweet as the breath of flowers,
Such as in the twilight hours

The young Bard breathes; and also thine

Those old memories divine,

Fables Grecian poets sung

When on Beauty's lips they hung,

Till the essenced song became

Like that kiss, half dew, half flame.
Thine each frail and lovely thing,
The first blossoms of the spring:
Violets, ere the sunny ray
Drinks their fragrant life away;
Roses, ere their crimson breast
Throws aside its green moss vest;
Young hearts, or ere toil, or care,
Or gold, has left a world-stain there.

Thine, too, other gifts above,
Every sign and shape of love,
Its first smile, and its first sigh,
Its hope, its despondency,
Its joy, its sorrow, all belong
To thy dear delicious song.
Fair ERATO, vowed to thee,
If a lute like mine may be
Offered at thy myrtle shrine,
Lute and heart and song are thine.
Broken be my treasured lute,
Be its every number mute,
Ere a single chord should waken,
If by thee or Love forsaken.
Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipped queen of poesy!
Literary Gazette.

COMPARISON.

L. E. L.

BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER.

I SAW the wild rose on its parent thorn,

Half-closed, soft blushing through the glittering dew, Wave in the breeze and scent the breath of morn, Lelia, the lovely flower resembled you.

Scarce had it spread to meet the orb of day,

Its fragrant beauties opening to the view, When ruffian blasts had whirled the rose away; Lelia, alas! it still resembles you.

So torn by wild and lawless Passion's force
From every social tie, thy lot must be;
At best oblivion shades thy future course,
And still the hapless flower resembles thee.

THE CAVES OF YORKSHIRE.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.

I.

PURE element of waters, wheresoe'er

Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts,
Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants,
Start into life, and in thy train appear!

And, through the sunny portion of the year,
Swift insects shine thy hovering pursuivants,
And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants,
And hart, and hind, and hunter with his spear,
Languish and droop together! Nor unfelt
In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign;
And haply far within the marble belt

Of central earth, where tortured spirits pine

For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt

Their anguish, and they blend sweet songs with thine!

II. MALHAM COVE.

Was the aim frustrated by force or guile,

When giants scooped from out the rocky ground

Tier under tier this semicerque profound.

Giants the same who built in Erin's Isle

That Causeway with incomparable toil!

Oh! had the Crescent stretched its horns, and wound,

With finished sweep, into a perfect round,

No mightier work had gained the plausive smile

Of all-beholding Phoebus! but, alas!

Vain earth! false world! Foundations must be laid

In heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of is and wAS,

Things incomplete, and purposes betrayed,
Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass,
Than noblest objects utterly decayed!

III. GORDALE.

At early dawn, or when the warmer air

Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy eve
Is busiest to confer and to bereave,

At either moment let thy feet repair

To Gordale chasm, terrific as the lair

Where the young lion's couch; for then, by leave
Of the propitious hour, thou mayest perceive
The local Deity, with oozy hair

And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn

Recumbent !-Him thou may'st behold, who hides
His lineaments from day, and there presides

Teaching the docile waters how to turn;

Or if need be, impediment to spurn,

And force their passage toward the salt sea tides. Blackwood's Magazine.

FRAGMENT.

LOVE once dwelt in a palmy isle,
His palace of the green leaves' shade,
A chain of rose upon his wings,

Whose guardian was a dark-eyed Maid.

They lived in sweet companionship:
Enough for him one smile so bright;
Enough for her to live for him,

To watch his chain, to keep it light.

But once the Nymph lay down to sleep,
Leaving her fragrant chain undone;
And Love awakened while she slept,
Shook off his fetters, and was gone.
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.