Thine, too, other gifts above,
Every sign and shape of love,
Its first smile, and its first sigh,
Its hope, its despondency,
Its joy, its sorrow, all belong
To thy dear delicious song.
Fair ERATO, Vowed to thee,
If a lute like mine may be
Offered at thy myrtle shrine,
Lute and heart and song are thine.
Broken be my treasured lute,
Be its every number mute,
Ere a single chord should waken,
If by thee or Love forsaken.
Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipped queen of poesy!

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

COMPARISON.

BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER.

I SAW the wild rose on its parent thorn,

Half-closed, soft blushing through the glittering dew, Wave in the breeze and scent the breath of morn, Lelia, the lovely flower resembled you.

Scarce had it spread to meet the orb of day,
Its fragrant beauties opening to the view,
When ruffian blasts had whirled the rose away;
Lelia, alas! it still resembles you.

So torn by wild and lawless Passion's force
From every social tie, thy lot must be;
At best oblivion shades thy future course,
And still the hapless flower resembles thee.

PURE element of waters, wheresoe'er

Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts,

Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants,
Start into life, and in thy train appear!

And, through the sunny portion of the year,
Swift insects shine thy hovering pursuivants,
And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants,
And hart and hind, and hunter with his spear,
Languish and droop together! Nor unfelt
In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign;
And haply far within the marble belt

Of central earth, where tortured spirits pine

For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt
Their anguish, and they blend sweet songs with thine!

II. MALHAM COVE.

Was the aim frustrated by force or guile,

When giants scooped from out the rocky ground
Tier under tier this semicerque profound.
Giants-the same who built in Erin's Isle
That Causeway with incomparable toil!

Oh! had the Crescent stretched its horns, and wound,
With finished sweep, into a perfect round,

No mightier work had gained the plausive smile

Of all-beholding Phœbus! but, alas!

Vain earth! false world! Foundations must be laid
In heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of is and was,
Things incomplete, and purposes betrayed,
Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass,
Than noblest objects utterly decayed!

III.-GORDALE.

At early dawn, or when the warmer air
Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy eve
Is busiest to confer and to bereave,
At either moment let thy feet repair
To Gordale chasm, terrific as the lair
Where the young lion's couch; for then, by leave
Of the propitious hour, thou mayest perceive
The local Deity, with oozy hair

And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn
Recumbent !-Him thou may'st behold, who hides
His lineaments from day, and there presides
Teaching the docile waters how to turn;
Or if need be, impediment to spurn,

And force their passage toward the salt sea tides.
Blackwood's Magazine.

FRAGMENT.

LOVE once dwelt in a palmy isle,
His palace of the green leaves' shade,
A chain of rose upon his wings,

Whose guardian was a dark-eyed Maid.

They lived in sweet companionship:
Enough for him one smile so bright;
Enough for her to live for him,

To watch his chain, to keep it light.

But once the Nymph lay down to sleep, Leaving her fragrant chain undone; And Love awakened while she slept, Shook off his fetters, and was gone. Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Henry I. (after the loss of Prince William) entertained hopes, for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when certain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away; and it was remarked, that he never afterwards was seen to smile, nor ever recovered his wonted cheerfulness.

THE bark that held a Prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain!

HUME.

Why comes not death to those that mourn ?—

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair
In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair,
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing;
He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring.

A murmur of the restless deep

Seemed blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board.

Graves, which true love had washed with tears
Were left to heaven's bright rain ;
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!

STANZAS

BY LORD BYRON.

AND Wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet Lady, speak those words again!
Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so ;
I would not give thy bosom pain.

My heart is sad!-my hopes are gone!—
My blood runs coldly through my breast ;
And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a beam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And, for a while my sorrows cease

To know that heart hath felt for mine!

O Lady! blessed be that tear,

It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tears may steep.

Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine!
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch-created to repine.

Then wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet Lady! speak those words again!

Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so;
I would not give thy bosom pain!

New Monthly Magazine.