Day-light had fled to meet the moon,
The stars were blinkin clear aboon,-
I swore, again to meet her soon,

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

SONNET BY CAMOENS,

On receiving a Band from his Mistress.

TRANSLATED BY LORD STRANGFORD.

Our poet had implored Donna Caterina to grant him a lock of her hair. She promised to bestow it at some future period, and in the mean time presented him with the fillet which she wore round her head, as a pledge of her intentions in his favour.—

Dear Band, which once adorn'd my worshipp'd fair, Pledge of that better gift I hope to gain,

In just reward of Love's long suffer'd pain; What mighty transport would my bosom share Had I but won a tress of that crisp hair,

Whose rich luxuriance late thou didst restrain! Much though I prize thee, must my heart complain, Since deem'd not worthy next its pulse to wear

A little portion of that precious gold!

Dear Band, my miser soul were griev'd indeed,
That stars severe and wayward fate withhold
Truth's just reward, and long affection's meed,
But that I know 'tis in Love's legends told,
Gifts, small as these, to greatest blessings lead!

SERENADE.

BY JEREMIAH J. CALLANAN.

The blue waves are sleeping,
The breezes are still ;
The light dews are weeping

Soft tears on the hill.
The moon in mild beauty
Looks bright from above,
Then come to my casement;
Oh! Mary, my love.

Not a sound, not a motion,
Is over the lake,

But the whisper of ripples,

As shoreward they break.

My skiff wakes no ruffle

The waters among; Then listen, dear maid,

To thy true lover's song.

No form from the lattice,

Did ever recline

Over Italy's waters

More lovely than thine-
Then come to the window,
And shed from above

One glance of thy dark eye,
One smile of thy love.

Oh! the soul of that eye,

When it breaks from its shroud,
Shines beauteously out,

Like some star from a cloud.

And thy whispers of love

Breath'd thus from afar,

Are sweeter to me

Than the sweetest guitar.

From the storms of this world
How gladly I'd fly,

To the calm of that breast,

To the heav'n of that eye!

How deeply I love thee
"Twere useless to tell;

Farewell, then, my dear one,
My Mary, farewell!

WITH MANY A PLANT.

BY RICHARD RYAN.

With many a plant, with many a flower,
My lattice, my casement is gleaming,
In whose spreading bells, at midnight's hour,
Many a fairy lies dreaming.

To-night! to-night! when all are at rest,(Unless, my love, you abhor it,)

I mean to think what 'tis I love best,
And ask some light fairy for it.

Come, whisper me, love, within this bower,
What you count the greatest blessing,
Supposing gifts came in a golden shower,
And you had your choice of possessing?
Yet stay-tears fast as the midnight dew
Will fall, if they cruelly use me;

I mean, my love, to ask them for you-
Do you think they've the heart to refuse me?

THE EMPRESS MARIA LOUISA, AND BONA

PARTE.

While the Emperor Napoleon was visiting the quays at Boulogne, the Empress was taking an airing in a boat, in the interior of the port; she even went so far as the Estrau. On her return, she perceived Bonaparte, who was waiting for her. On quitting the vessel, her foot slipped, and she would have fallen, had not General Vandamme, who held her hand, supported her by putting his arm round her waist. Bonaparte, who was about ten paces distant with the engineer, perceived the accident; he ran up, and said, rather angrily, "What! do you not know yet, Madam, how to use your feet properly?" The Empress Maria Louisa, without being disconcerted, looked at him steadfastly, and jocularly replied, "To hear you speak thus, Sir, one would think you never had made a false step in your life!" The reproach was made in that

tone, mixed with a sweetness of dignity, which can be acquired only by an union of the favours of nature with the benefits of superior education. Bonaparte felt how much he was in the wrong, and although but little accustomed to such remonstrances, he, with great gallantry, replied, “I beg, Madam, you will excuse my abruptness, and only attribute it to the fear occasioned by the idea of the injury a fall might do yourself."-" Since that is the case," replied the Empress, still smiling, "“I forgive you; give me your arm."

MADRIGAL.

TRANSLATED FROM CAMOENS BY LORD STRANGFORD,

Dear is the blush of early light

To him who ploughs the pathless deep,
When winds have rav'd throughout the night,

And roaring tempests banish'd sleep

Dear is the dawn, which springs at last,
And shows him all his peril past.

Dearer to me the break of day,

Which thus thy bended eye illumes;
And, chasing fear and doubt away,
Scatters the night of mental glooms,
And bids my spirit hope, at last,
A rich reward for peril past!

N