Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,

A tune he had learned in his mother's bowers.

But I may not, and I dare not weep,

Lest the vision pass away,

And the vigils that I love to keep

Be broken up, by the fevered sleep
That leaves me-with the day-

Like one who has travelled far to the spot
Where his home should be-and finds it not!

Yet then, like the incense of many flowers,
Rise pleasant thoughts to me;

For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers,
That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,
To meet me over the sea;

And I feel, in my soul, the fadeless truth

Of her whom I loved in early youth.

Like hidden streams,-whose quiet tone

Is unheard in the garish day,

That utter a music all their own,

When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon

Looks out to hear them play,

I knew not half thy gentle worth,
Till grief drew all its music forth.

We shall not meet on earth again !—
And I would have it so ;

For, they tell me that the cloud of pain
Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain,
And touched thy looks with woe;
And I have heard that storm and shower
Have dimmed thy loveliness, my flower!

I would not look upon thy tears,-—
For I have thee in my heart,

Just as thou wert, in those blessed years

When we were, both, too young for fears

That we should ever part;

And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well!

I love to think on thee, as one
With whom the strife is o'er;

And feel that I am journeying on,
Wasted, and weary, and alone,

To join thee on that shore

Where thou-I know-wilt look for me,

And I, for ever, be with thee!

NAPOLEON

MORIBUNDUS.

Sume superbiam

Quesitam meritis.

YES! bury me deep in the infinite sea,
Let my heart have a limitless grave
For my spirit in life was as fierce and free
As the course of the tempest-wave.

As far from the stretch of all earthly control
Were the fathomless depths of my mind,
And the ebbs and flows of my single soul
Were as tides to the rest of mankind.

Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world,
As in life did the voice of my fame;

And each mutinous billow that's sky-ward curled,
Shall seem to re-echo my name.

That name shall be storied in records sublime,

In the uttermost corners of earth:

Now breathed as a curse, now a spell-word sublime,

In the glorified land of my birth.

My airy form on some lofty mast

In fire-fraught clouds shall appear,

And mix with the shriek of the hurricane blast

My voice to the fancy of fear.

Yes! plunge my dark heart in the infinite sea,
It would burst from a narrower tomb-
Shall less than an ocean his sepulchre be
Whose mandate to millions was doom?

NOTES.

1.-Page 1.

Sketches taken from Dover Castle during a Storm.

These beautiful poems are from the pen of W. Read, Esq., the author of "Rouge and Noir, with other Poems," a volume of very high promise. They were originally published in the Literary Gazette, under the signature of "Eustace."

2.-Page 43.

The Mossy Seat.

This poem, the production of D. M. Moir, Esq., the Delta of Blackwood's Magazine, is incorrectly ascribed in the body of the work to J. Moir, Esq. The latter gentleman is no relation to the author of "The Legend of Genevieve," although he has published several vigorous translations from the Spanish, in an article on Spanish Literature in the Edinburgh Review.

3.-Page. 50.

Ode to France.-By Lord Byron.

This splendid Ode had not been transplanted into any edition of Lord Byron's works when first printed in this volume. It has lately been included in the edition of the noble poet, published in Paris, by Galignani.

4.-Page 64.

To the Spirit of Poetry.

This exquisite little poem, which appeared originally under the signature of Zarach, is from the pen of J. S. Clarke, Esq.

5.-Page 80.

My Brother's Grave.

This touching poem was, if we mistake not, first printed in a little periodical called "The College Magazine." It was afterwards transplanted into the Etonian. Its author, Mr., now the Rev. J. Moultrie, has written several charming poems in the Etonian, and Knight's Quarterly Magazine. Mr. Moultrie is also the author of the Stanzas at page 157.

6.-Page 88.

Lord Byron's latest Verses.

These lines have been printed very incorrectly in most of the periodicals; but are here given from an autograph copy of Lord Byron in the possession of John Bowring, Esq. They were first put in circulation by the person who calls himself Major Parry, and who has written a book entitled "The last Days of Lord Byron." Some idea may be formed of the value of his version, from the fact, that for the lineTread all reviving passions down,

Is given

Tread these reviewing papers down,

and that Mr. P. was accustomed to cite this passage as a proof that Lord Byron's feelings on the subject of the press had undergone a very sensible alteration!

7.-Page 91.

A Sketch.

These lines of the gifted author of the Improvisatrice, have been published in her earliest volume, "The Fate of Adelaide, and other Poems."

8.- Page 93.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

This poem appeared originally in an Irish (we believe, a Belfast) newspaper, dated from Trinity College, Dublin. After a good deal of discussion, they have been ascribed to the Rev. John Wolfe, on authority which scarcely admits of a question.

9.-Page 105.

A Drinking Song.—By Lord Byron.

This singularly original poem, which the veracious Captain Medwin tells us was composed by Lord Byron one day after dinner, during his sojourn with the noble bard, was printed several years before in a volume of Translations from the Classics, by John Cam Hobhouse, Esq.; as were also the Stanzas, pages 217, 225, and 335. Mr. H.'s work transpired (for it can scarcely be said to have been published) in 1809.

10.-Page 107.

A Recollection.

This poem is improperly ascribed to J. Moir, Esq. It is from the pen of John Malcolm, Esq., and has been included in a volume of very charming poetry, entitled "The Buccaneer, with other Poems."

11.-Page 116.
Magdalena.

By H. A. Driver, Esq., author of "The Arabs."

12.-Page 118.

The Village Church.

Improperly referred to a provincial newspaper, but extracted from the "Velvet Cushion," by the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, of Harrow.