TIME.

WHILE others grace thy natal day
With festive dance and song,
A pilgrim leaves his lonely way
To mingle in the throng:
When thou art near, a lingering pace,
A scanty lock, a wrinkled face,
No more to me belong;

For smiling beauty best can prove
How swift my silver pinions move.

I will not boast how oft and bright
This day I mean to bring,
Though many a downy plume last night
Thy bounty gave my wing.

Thy hand my rosy crown bestowed

To thee my sparkling glass I owed,
Now take my offering;

Thou canst not reach so rich a prize
In Pleasure's gayest Paradise!

Midst sands that sparkle in my glass
No purer gem I find;

The rest may glitter, break, and pass,
But this remains behind;

Pride may the modest pearl disdain,
Or Love a brittle semblance feign,
But Pride and Love are blind;

They mock my power, yet I alone
Their fraudful counterfeits make known.

Receive my gift!-of nature's wealth
Thy mind has ample store;

Of Pleasure, Honour, Hope, and Health,
I cannot give thee more.

The gem which none of these can buy
Will youth's ethereal light supply,
When thou like me art hoar;
I give what Fortune cannot lend—
Time, only Time reveals a friend!
European Magazine.

SONG,

BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ.

For thee, love, for thee love,

I'll brave fate's sternest storm; She cannot daunt or chill the hearts

Which love keeps bold and warm:
And when her clouds are blackest, nought
But thy sweet self I'll see,

Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught
But thee, love, only thee.

For thee, love, for thee, love,
My fond heart would resign
The brightest cup that pleasure fills,
And fortune's wealthiest mine;

For pleasure's smiles are vanity,
And fortune's fade or flee;
There's purity and constancy
In thee, love, only thee.

For thee, love, for thee, love,
Life's lowly vale I'll tread,

And aid thy steps the journey through,

Nor quit thee till I'm dead;

And even then round her I love,.

My shade shall hovering be,

And warble notes from heaven above

To thee, love, only thee.

New European Magazine.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.

BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ.

To whom belongs this valley fair,
That sleeps beneath the filmy air,
Even like a living thing!

Calm,

-as the infant at the breast,Save a still sound that speaks of rest,That streamlet's murmuring!

The heavens appear to love this vale;
There, clouds with scarce-seen motion sail
Or, 'mid the silence lie!

By that blue arch this beauteous earth
Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth
Seems bound unto the sky.

O! that this lovely vale were mine!
Then, from glad youth to calm decline,
My years would gently glide;
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams,
And memory's oft-returning gleams
By peace be sanctified.

There would unto my soul be given,

From presence of that gracious heaven,

A piety sublime;

And thoughts would come of mystic mood,

To make in this deep solitude

Eternity of time!

And did I ask to whom belonged

This vale ?-I feel that I have wronged

Nature's most gracious soul!

She spreads her glories o'er the earth,
And all her children from their birth
Are joint-heirs of the whole?

Yea! long as nature's humblest child
Hath kept her temple undefiled
By sinful sacrifice,

Earth's fairest scenes are all his own,
He is a monarch, and his throne

Is built amid the skies!

CELANO.

A BLUE Italian sky,-yet scarce more blue
Than the clear lake beneath,-upon whose breast
Are gliding two or three light boats, with sails
Floating and waving gracefully Hike clouds.
On one side there are corn and green grass fields,
And olive groves and vineyards, and one shrine,—
One ruined shrine,-sacred in other days
To some most radiant nymph or starry queen,
Whose sweet divinity was beauty. Near
Is a lone cavern, with its azure fount
Shaded by roses and a laurel tree,

Beneath whose shade might the young painter lean,
And gaze around until his passionate hues
Caught light and life and loveliness. Steep hills
Are on the other side, upon whose heights

Dark Hannibal once rested. Who could dream

That this calm lake was crimson once with blood?

That these green myrtles waved, o'er the death-wounds Of men in their last agony? Oh, War!

How soon thy red fiends can lay desolate

The holy and the beautiful!

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

THE FLOWER OF MALHAMDALE.

IF, on some bright and breezless eve,
When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf,
The moralizing Bard will heave

A sigh that seems allied to grief,
Shall I be blithe-shall I be mute-

Nor shed the tear, nor pour the wail,
When death has blighted to its root

The sweetest flower of Malhamdale!

Her form was like the fair sun-stream
That glances through the mists of noon,-
Ah! little thought we that its beam
Would vanish from our glens so soon!
Yet, when her eye had most of mirth,
And when her cheek the least was pale,
They talked of purer worlds than earth :-
She could not stay in Malhamdale!

The placid depth of that dark eye,

The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek, Will still awake the long-drawn sigh, While memory of the past shall speak. And we can never be but pained

To think, when gazing on that vale, One angel more to heaven is gained, But one is lost to Malhamdale!

I may not tell what dreams were mine,
Dreams laid in bright futurity,
When the full, soft, and partial shine
Of that fair eye was turned on me.
Enough enough, the blooming wreath

Of Love, and Hope, and Joy, is pale,
And now its withering perfumes breathe
On yon new grave in Malhamdale.
Literary Gazette.