RECOLLECTIONS OF FRIENDSHIPS.

MARINO VALIERO.

BY BYRON.

ALL these men were my friends; I loved them, they Requited honourably my regards;

We served and fought; we smiled and wept in concert;

We revel'd or we sorrow'd side by side;
We made alliances of blood and marriage;
We grew in years and honours fairly,-till
Their own desire, not my ambition, made
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell!
Farewell all social memory! all thoughts

In common! and sweet bonds which link old friendships,

When the survivors of long years and actions,
Which now belong to history, soothe the days
Which yet remain by treasuring each other,
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror
Of half a century on his brother's brow,
And sees a hundred beings, now on earth
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by,
And seeming not all dead, as long as two
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band,
Which once were one and many, still retain
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marbleOime! Oime!-and must I do this deed!

I blame you not-you act in your vocation; They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised

you;

So have they me: but you ne'er spake with them; You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt; You never had their wine-cup at your lips;

You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, Nor held a revel in their company;

Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile

In social interchange with yours, nor trusted
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have:
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs,
The elders of the council: I remember
When all our locks were like the raven's wing,
As we went forth to take our prey around
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan;
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood?
Each stab to them will seem my suicide.

That friendship's raised on sand,
Which every sudden gust of discontent,
Or flowing of our passions, can change
As if it ne'er had been.

Massinger.

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

BY MRS HEMANS.

I Go, sweet friends! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go, but when you pause to hear,

From distant hills, the sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear, Think on me then-I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh

when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,
Think of me then!-I go, I go!

Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next Heaven, I trust.

Rowe.

GRATITUDE.

Sweet is the scent of vernal shower,

The bee's collected treasures sweet;

Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet

The still small voice of Gratitude.

Gray