ON PAINTING. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. O, thou! by whose expressive art And sweeter by reflection please! And hail thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than mortal power! But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear; In Memory's sad and wakeful eye; Shall song its witching cadence roll; But thou serenely silent art, By heaven and love both taught to lend The sacred image of a friend ; For me that sweet memorial shine, Or gazing through luxuriant tears, Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Smiles through the sainted hues of heaven. Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; Then blest be Nature's guardian muse, The mirror of creation seems; Literary Gazette. NIGHT. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. NIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet when labours close, To gather round an aching breast Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems Blend in fantastic strife; Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep Hopes that were Angels in their birth, Night is the time to watch; Ön ocean's dark expanse; To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind Night is the time for care; Like Brutus midst his slumbering host Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views, Descries, athwart the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew Steal from the throng to haunts untrol, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, Think of heaven's bliss and give the sign FROM THE ARABIC. THE morn that ushered thee to life, my child, E. ODE, BY LORD BYRON. Он, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be ! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die; The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn 1 And proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before Thy storms have awakened their sleep; For where is the glory they left thee in trust ?'Tis scattered in darkness. "Tis trampled in dust! Go look through the kingdoms of earth, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, But thou art alone in thy shame! The world cannot liken thee there; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name Beyond the low reach of compare; Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us, through time, A proverb, a bye-word, for treachery and crime. While conquest illumined his sword, While yet in his prowess he stood, |