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, 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- SAPPHO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. Look on this brow!-the laurel wreath For passion gave the living breath, Look on this brow!-the lowest slave, The veriest wretch of want and care, 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, And she had hope-the treacherous hope, 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! A SKETCH. 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 There is oft told A melancholy record of this grove :— 'Twas once, they say, the haunt of young Affection And now seems hallowed by the tender vows That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed; All bow it down; rarely the blossom comes 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, A melancholy, broken-hearted girl. She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Bright burning blushes,-torches of the tomb. Within yon bower Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth, The mountain-ash puts forth to welcome spring, Where nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom. 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 brow,— 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, 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 To think on joys which but have been; Must haunt my life, and speed my fall! I think on thee,-I think and sigh,— 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, From this dark world,-since thou art gone! I need no friend to share my woe! I love to weep apart,-alone. |