And, arm'd with prayers, such as these,
'Midst burning tortures, dy'd in peace;
Nor wonder they to death were true,
They read, and pray'd, and liv'd like you;
Like your's, the faith that bade them die;
And such as your's their constancy.

THE VALENTINE WREATH.

BY J. MONTGOMERY.

Rosy red the hills appear

With the light of morning,

Beauteous clouds, in æther clear,

All the East adorning;

White, through mist, the meadows shine :Wake, my love, my Valentine!

For thy locks of raven hue,

Flowers of hoar frost pearly,
Crocus-cups of gold and blue,
Snow-drops drooping early,

With mazereon sprigs combine :—
Rise, my love, my Valentine!

O'er the margin of the flood,
Pluck the daisy peeping;
Through the covert of the wood,
Hunt the sorrel creeping;

With the little celandine,

Crown my love, my Valentine.

Pansies, on their lowly stems,
Scattered o'er the fallows;
Hazel-buds, with crimson gems,
Green and glossy sallows,
Tufted moss and ivy-twine,

Deck my love, my Valentine.

Few and simple flow'rets, these;
Yet, to me, less glorious,
Garden beds and orchard trees!-

Since, this wreath victorious
Binds you now for ever mine,
O, my love, my Valentine!

ON ASPASIA.

Aspasia rolls her sparkling eyes,
And every bosom feels her power;
The Indians thus view Phoebus rise,

And gaze in rapture, and adore;

Quick to the soul the piercing splendours dart, Fire every vein, and melt the coldest heart.

Aspasia speaks :-the listening crowd

Drink in the sound with greedy ears;

Mute are the giddy and the loud,

And self-admiring folly hears.

Her wit secures the conquests of her face,

Points every charm, and brightens every grace.

Aspasia moves ;-her well-turn'd limbs
Glide stately with harmonious ease;
Now, through the mazy dance, she swims,
Like a tall bark o'er summer seas;

"Twas thus Æneas knew the Queen of Love,
Majestic moving through the golden grove.

But ah! how cruel is my lot,

To doat ou one so heavenly fair;

For in my humble state forgot,

Each charm but adds to my despair;

The tuneful swan thus faintly warbling lies,
Looks on his mate, and, while he sings, he dies.

EPIGRAM,

Attributed to a Royal Genius of the House of York, accompanying a White Rose which he presented to his Mistress, who was attached to that of Lancaster. The diction is, of course,

modernized.

If this fair rose offend thy sight,
Plac'd on thy bosom bare,
"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian-there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

And kiss it thou should'st deign,

With envy pale, 'twill lose its dye,

And Yorkist turn again.

SO PURE, SO FOND, SO TENDERLY.

BY RICHARD RYAN.

So pure, so fond, so tenderly,
Hath love thy heart to me resign'd,
And taught those eyes to smile on me,
That late no resting place could find.
Say, did they ceaseless wander on

To watch if mine would also stray;
Did those cheeks each form smile upon,
To try if mine were false as they?

No form could tempt my eye to rove, Though lustrous it might beam on mine;

No heart awake my soul to love,

But one so fond, so pure, as thine.

Afric's" Love-bird," that ever dies,

When Death's hand chills its faithful mate,

And scorns to waste a life in sighs

Sweet love, 's- an emblem of my fate.

BONNY BELL.

BY ARCHIBALD TRAIL.

Ae night I met a bonnie lass

Gaun skiping through the dewey grass;

She did all ither maids surpass,

But, whistle o'er the lave o't.

Wie bannet aff, quoth I, "Good e'en ! Your bonnie face before I've seen ;”— Love's sparkles flew frae baith her e'en ; But, whistle o'er the lave o't.

I speer'd at her what was her name,
And if she was far frae her hame,
Sine pried her mou, she said "For shame,
Don't whistle o'er the lave o't."

She begg'd that I would let her gang,
And said her mither would her bang
Were she to do a thing that's wrang,
Or, whistle o'er the lave o't.

Her name she said was Besey Bell,
Her mither had none but hersel,
That auld loon, Time, a tale might tell,
If, whistle o'er the lave o't.

I press'd her sair to be my ain;
She, blushing, said, “I dinna ken,"

I pried her bonnie mou again—

And, whistle o'er the lave o't.

The lass seem'd pleas'd, and gave consent;

So down we sat amang the bent,

My plaidy sair'd us for a tent,

To whistle o'er the lave o't.