TWINE not those roses red for me,-
Darker and sadder my wreath must be;
Mine is of flowers unkissed by the sun,
Flowers that died as the Spring begun.
The blighted leaf and the cankered stem
Are what should form my diadem.
e-it is nipt by the blast; That lily-the blight has over it past;
That peach-bud—a worm has gnawed it away; Those violets they were culled yesterday: Bind them with leaves from the dark yew tree, Then come and offer the wreath to me.
Let every flower be a flower of Spring,
But on each be a sign of withering;
Suited to me is the drooping wreath,
With colourless hues and scentless breath;
Seek ye not buds of brighter bloom,
Why should their beauty waste on the tomb?
I am too young for death, you say:
Fall not and fade not the green leaves in May? Does not the rose in its light depart?
Needs there long life to break the heart?
I have felt the breath of the deadly power,My summons is come, and I know mine hour!
There came a voice to my sleeping ear,
With words of sorrow and words of fear,
Its sound was the roll of the mountain wave,
Its breath was damp as an opening grave;
My heart grew colder at every word,
For I knew 'twas the voice of death I heard!
It summoned me, and I wept to die,-
Oh, fair is life to the youthful eye!
Time may come with his shadowy wing,
But who can think on Autumn in Spring?
With so much of hope, and of light, and of bloom, Marvel ye that I shrunk from my doom?
My tears are past, the grave will be
Like a home and a haven, welcome to me!
I have marked the fairest of hopes decay,
Have seen love pass like a cloud away,
Seen bloom and sweet feelings waste to a sigh,
Till my heart has sickened and wished to die.
Falling to earth like a shower of light,
Yon ash tree is losing its blossoms of white;
Ere its green berries are coloured with red,
I shall be numbered amid the dead.
The buds that are falling in dust will lie
A prey for the worms, and soon shall I !
Be my tomb in the green grass made,
There let no white tombstone be laid;
All my monument shall be
A lonely and bending cypress tree,
Drooping-just such as should lean above
One who lived and who died for love!
Literary Gazette.
'DE mortuis nil nisi bonum ;'
If I had virtues kindly own 'em-
As human nature still is frail,
Spread o'er my faults Oblivion's veil,
Remembering this command from heaven,
Forget, forgive, and be forgiven.
WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night,
That secret intelligent grace?
Or why should I gaze with such pensive delight
On thy fair, but insensible face?
What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
Beyond the warm sunshine of day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream
Where dances thy tremulous ray!
Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile!
Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?
Yet, where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile,
And loves thee-almost as a friend!
The tear that looks bright, in the beam, as it flows,
Unmoved dost thou ever behold;
;-
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee, oft, in vain, hath been told!
Yet soothing thou art, and for ever I find,
Whilst watching thy gentle retreat,
A moonlight composure steal over my mind,
Poetical-pensive, and sweet!
I think of the years that for ever have fled ;-
Of follies by others forgot ;-
Of joys that are vanished—and hopes that are dead;
And of friendships that were—and are not!
I think of the future, still gazing the while,
As though thou'dst those secrets reveal;
But ne'er dost thou grant one encouraging smile,
To answer the mournful appeal.
Thy beams, which so bright through my casement appear, To far distant regions extend;
Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,
And sleep on the grave of a friend.
Then still must I love thee, mild Queen of the Night!
Since feeling and fancy agree,
To make thee a source of unfailing delight,
A friend and a solace to me!
STILL BORN NOVEMBER 6, 1817.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
A THRONE on earth awaited thee,
A nation longed to see thy face,
Heir to a glorious ancestry,
And father of a mighty race!
Vain hope, that throne thou must not fill;
Thee must that Nation ne'er behold;
Thine ancient house is heirless still,
Thy line shall never be unrolled.
The Mother knew her offspring dead;
Oh was it grief, or was it love
That broke her heart? The spirit fled
To seek her nameless child above.
Led by his natal star, she trod
His path to heaven: the meeting there,
And how they stood before their God,
The day of judgment will declare.
Look! where, amongst the porphyry columns, sits
Jove the Olympian! Look !-His shadowy arms
Crown the brave temple of his Deity,
And round about his head the vapours come
Lowering, in dark obedience.-Nobly hath
The painter told his story-and well it shines
(Placed by some cunning hand there) from amidst
The architectural things of new creation,
That in their gilded dress rise stiffly up,
As though to do it honour.-Trooping on,
See where the crowds of worshippers (attired
In white, and carrying flowers) pass on, to hail
The Spirit supreme, by all his various names
Of father, and king, and PLUVIAN JUPITER.
He-like the god of clouds, sits motionless:
But in his quiet power there seems to be
Assent and blessing, and the elements
As self-informed, bow down obsequiously.
Above, above-temples and towers sublime,
Rocks and blue mountains, and Athenian skies
Gleam in the distance. What a scene is there!
Fit for those mighty minds intelligent,
Who, through the mists of ages rear their heads
In brave defiance of the storms of time.
And, haply, from these beautiful regions came
A power, that shed a light on man; and as
The sun draws from the earth rich fruits, drew forth
Bright thoughts and patriot feeling, and did give
To Greece its fame unparalleled.
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