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Awake! not Greece-she is awake!

Awake, my spirit,—think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake

And then strike home!

Tread all reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood—unto thee, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be!

If thou regret'st thy youth-why live ?

The land of honourable death Is here—up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out—less often sought than found

A soldier's grave, for thee the best, Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

SAPPHO.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Look on this brow !—the laurel wreath

Beamed on it, like a wreath of fire; For passion gave the living breath,

That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre ! Look on this brow !--the lowest slave,

The veriest wretch of want and care, Might shudder at the lot that gave

Her genius, glory, and despair.

For, from these lips were uttered sighs,

That, more than fever, scorched the frame; And tears were rained from these bright eyes,

That from the heart, like life-blood, came.

She loved !-- she felt the lightning-gleam,

That keenest strikes the loftiest mind;
Life quenched in one ecstatic dream,

The world a waste before-behind.

And she had hope—the treacherous hope,

The last deep poison of the bowl,
That makes us drain it, drop by drop,

Nor lose one misery of soul.
Then all gave way--mind, passion, pride!

She cast one weeping glance above,
And buried in her bed, the tide,

The whole concentred strife of Love !

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST VIEW OF FONTHILL ABBEY.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

The mighty master waved his wand, and lo!
On the astonished eye the glorious show
Burst like a vision! Spirit of the place !
Has the Arabian wizard with his mace
Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread,
And bade the enchanted palace rise instead ?
Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend,
High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend ?
And starting from th' umbrageous avenue
Spread the rich pile, magnificent, to view ?
Enter !—From the arched portal look again
Back, on the lessening woods and distant plain !
Ascend the steps !—The high and fretted roof
Is woven by some elfin hand aloof;
Whilst from the painted window's long array
A mellow light is shed as not of day.

all !-O never may the spell
Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well!

How gorgeous

Is not this grove A scene of pensive loveliness ?—The gleam Of Dian's gentle ray falls on the trees, And piercing through the gloom, seems like the smile That Pity gives to cheer the brow of Grief; The turf hath caught a silvery hue of light, Broken by shadows, where the branching oak Rears its dark shade, or where the aspen waves Its trembling leaves. The breeze is murmuring by, Fraught with sweet sighs of flowers and the song Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth, Like the soft dirge of love.

There is oft told A melancholy record of this grove: 'Twas once, they say, the haunt of young AffectionAnd now seems hallowed by the tender vows That erst were breathed here.

Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed; But love is like the rose, so many ills Assail it in the bud !--The cankering blast, The frost of winter and the summer storm, All bow it down; rarely the blossom comes To full maturity ; but there is nought Sinks with so chill a breath as Faithlessness, As she could tell whose loveliness lives yet In village legends.—Often at this hour Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows Of one more dear than life unto her soul; He twined him round the heart which beat with all The deep devotedness of early love, Then left her, careless of the passion which He had awakened into wretchedness. The blight which withered all the blossoms love

Had fondly cherished, withered too the heart
Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice,
Save in her faded beauty ; for she looked
A melancholy, broken-hearted girl.
She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud
Once mantling o'er her cheek like that which eve
Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue,
Had faded into paleness, broken by
Bright burning blushes,-torches of the tomb.
There was such sadness, even in her smiles,
And such a look of utter hopelessness
Dwelt in her soft blue eye,-a form so frail,
So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth,
'Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair,
And see it traced with such a tale of woe,
To think that cne so young and beautiful
Was wasting to the grave.

Within yon bower
Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth,
The mountain-ash puts forth to welcome spring,
Her form was found reclined upon a bank,
Where nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom.
One white arm lay beneath her drooping head,
While her bright tresses twined their sunny wreath
Around the polished ivory; there was not
A tinge of colour on her lovely face ;-
'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill
Had traced each charm of beauty but the blush.
Serenity, so sweet, sat on her brown-
So soft a smile yet hovered o'er her lips-
At first they thought 'twas sleep,—and sleep it was,

The cold long rest of death.
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

REPROACH ME NOT.

OH! gentle shade-reproach me not,

For hours of mirth too late gone by! Thy loveliness is ne'er forgot

However wild the revelry. For o'er the silent goblet, thou

Art still remembered, and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow;

And I am lone, while all are loud.

Reproach me not,--Reproach me not

For mingling in the noisy scene ! Mine is indeed a gloomy lot,

To think on joys which but have been ; To meditate on woes, which yet

Must haunt my life, and speed my fall ! Some minds would struggle to forget,

But mine would fain remember all.

I think on thee,

I think and sigh,– Though thoughts are sad, and sighs are vain ! There's something in thy memory,

That gives a loveliness to pain ; But yet, ah! gentle saint, forgive

The faults this wretched breast hath known! Had fate allowed thee but to live,

Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shewn.

Thy friends are fading from my sight,

But from my mind they ne'er depart; They leave behind them in their flight, Their images upon my

heart ;And better 'twere that all should go

From this dark world, since thou art gone ! I need no friend to share my woe!

I love to weep apart,_alone.

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