Then rouse, my soul, in Fate's resistless day,
Repel impatient Grief's usurping sway;
Roll'd in thyself, all aid of mortals spurn,
Nor trust a treacherous friend, his guile to mourn.
Lives there a man, the phoenix of his race,

'Tis he that spurns each feigning friend's embrace.
Truth fades, while wide the thorn of falsehood grows,
And men's false deeds their flattering words oppose;
Nor one to keep his plighted faith prepares,
Till o'er his head the burnish'd sabre glares.
Then weak the mind, unmov'd by such disgrace,
To view, with due contempt, the miscreant race;
For hosts of lies against the truth combine,
As bending curves distort the equal line.

And thou, that after youth unvext with pain,
The muddy dregs of turbid life wouldst drain;
If one poor cup thy parching thirst could slake,
Say, wouldst thou plunge in Ocean's boundless lake?
He reigns, alone, the sovereign of his soul,
Whom neither fears nor foreign cares controul;
Who hopes not, fondly, in his tented dome,
Unaltered still, to find a lasting home;
For who hath heard, or who shall ever hear
Of domes unaltered, in this changeful sphere.

Sages, who musing deep the course explore Of things that are, and things that are no more, Hide, in your breasts, the strange mysterious plan, Since silence best becomes the lot of man. Not mortal might can stay the ceaseless course Of Fate, that rules us with resistless force. Even you may wander from your homes exil'd, With wayward camels, through the sandy wild.

J. L.

EDINBURGH.

ELEGY.

THE setting sun still lingers in the mead,

And gilds the landscape with his parting beam; Yon lowing heifers ruminating' feed,

And gentle breezes curl the winding stream,

Along whose banks, with lingering steps, I love
To wander, musing, at the close of day.
And now perchance my Edward here may rove,
To snare, with wily skill, the finny prey.

In fancy I behold him pensive bend,

Beside the river where tall woods are seen,
And o'er the glassy surface wide extend
Their soft reflected tints of early green.

The treacherous angle quivers in his hand,
But little does the wonted sport delight;
And ofthe gazes vacant' on the land,

And oft the starting tear bedims his sight.

Ah! at this moment does he think on me?
Does he in silent solitude deplore

That unrelenting, that severe decree,

Which harshly told us we should meet no more?

Yes! Fancy brings his image to my view,
As when indignant Fortune bade us part:
Still paints him virtuous, noble, tender, true,
Just as he look'd when first he won my heart.

Alas! to think how very short a space

Divides us now!-we both perhaps may stray Along this river, and I now may trace

His wandering footsteps on the chalky way.

Mournful I gaze upon the rippling tide,

And lost in anguish'd thought, I senseless cry, 6 I envy thee, O stream! for thou wilt glide, And meet the glances of my Edward's eye.

'Should he upon thy mossy bank recline,

Sweet winding river! murmur in his ear 'These vows sincere, these tender sighs of mine, And tell him thou art fraught with many a tear;

Tell him, that though we must for ever part, Through time and space his image will endure;

And still be cherish'd at my faithful heart;

For, like thy stream, my love is deep and pure.'

N. S. S. L.

WHAT IS AN EPIGRAM?

WHAT is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole,
Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

BALLAD,

Он tarry, gentle traveller;
Oh tarry now at setting day;
Nor haste to leave this lowly vale,
For lofty mountains far away.

Oh tell me what has tempted thee
Thro' woods and dreary wilds to roam;
O tell me what has tempted thee
To quit thy lot and peaceful home.

Say, hast thou not a partner dear,

That's constant to thy love, and kind? And wilt thou leave her faithful side, Nor cast one sorrowing look behind?

Yon sun that gilds the village spire,
And gayly flings his parting ray,
Say, smiles he not as sweetly o'er
Thy native village far away?

Does mad ambition lure thy steps
To wander in the paths of strife?
Ah think how swift thy minutes fly!
Ab, think how short thy span of life!

For life is like yon crimson beam
That trembles in the western skies;
Full soon, alas! its glories cease;
It sparkles-glimmers-fades-and dies.

O waste not then thy fleeting hours
In foreign climes and paths unknown;
Return thee to the happy plains

That bounteous nature made thy own.

For me, nor gold, nor princely power, Nor purple vest, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophied grandeur boasts Shall lure me from my tranquil home.

This rustic cot and silent shade

Shall evermore my dwelling be;
E'en when my destined days are spent
I'll rest beneath yon aged tree.

Beside the brook, a simple stone
Shall serve to guard my cold remains,
And tell the pilgrims, as they pass,
I died amidst my native plains.

Return then, gentle traveller,
Return thee with the morning ray;
Nor leave again thy lowly vale,
For distant mountains far away.