Soon the sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the Hero's grave:
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
O how sweetly sleep the brave!
From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot, and flourish free;
Glory's temple is the tomb!
Death is immortality!
SOME Men of Books are wonderous nice
In buying all that's rare or choice ;-
Now Mævius, on a different plan,
Buys up the veriest trash he can,
And hoards, with avaricious glee,
His huge waste-paper library
In garrets, sheds, and lofts for hay,
Till tons of learning mould away :—
Mourn ye cook-shops and common sewers,
The loss, alack! is wholly yours.
BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER.
RING on ring on, ye merry bells,
And be to others, sounds of gladness-
Alas! your silver sweetness swells
To wake my slumbering heart to madness.
Ring on! ring on! for since your chimes
Shall never now my wedding hallow,
O! be the voice of other times,
And rouse their joys, like spectres sallow!
Ah! ring such pensive peals as when
In these tall groves I wander'd sighing, And listen'd to the best of men,
Who now in yonder grave is lying!
Ah! ring such peals as may recall
Those happy hours, now gone for ever;
And whilst the bitter tear-drops fall,
At once my soul and reason sever.
KEEN blows the wind, and biting rains descend;
Boy! let the cheerful log improve the fire:
Here too, invite my fair, my lovely friend;
Meanwhile, from yon sear aspin bring the lyre.
Oh, lyre belov'd! I touch thy strings in vain;
Fancy, with all her flattering dreams, is fled,
Which once, with Hope and Pleasure in her train,
Twined her gay wreaths around my youthful head.
Yet once, once more assist the Poet's art,
When Friendship calls on MARY's natal morn; Once more, thy stronger, sweeter sounds impart, For then, were Grace and Truth and Pity born.
Hark! Or does aught beguile the listening ear?
Or does the lyre assist the Poet's art?
A softer minstrelsy I seem to hear,
Strains, not unworthy even of MARY's heart.
Whilst Grace and Truth and Pity's self are dear,
Which shine in MARY's form, and MARY's breast,
The Muse shall own, in each revolving year,
The kindred sounds by Friendship's voice exprest.
Boy! hang my lyre on yon sear branch again;
Youth may be gone, but Fancy is not dead!
MARY attends, nor disapproves the strain;
One myrtle sprig shall yet adorn my head.
A HAMPER I receiv'd, of wine,
As good, Dick says, as e'er was tasted-
And Dick may be suppos'd to know,
For he contriv'd his matters so,
As every day with me to dine
Much longer than the liquor lasted :-
If such are presents-while I live
Oh! let me not receive-but give.
AND have I then planted the briars of Care
Where the roses of Pleasure should flourish alone?
Ah sure, when I wounded a bosom so fair,
Each tenderer feeling had fled from my own!
-No-they had not indeed-for I vow, I protest,
By the shrine of those beauties so nearly divine,
That the tortures I heedlessly gave to her breast,
Pierc'd deeper, and sharper, and keener to mine.
How I started when tears filled her soft flowing eyes
Like diamonds of dew, on the forehead of day.
And oh! how I wish'd that my amorous sighs,
Like the panting of Zephyr, could kiss them away.
Yet she could not be angry-she could not, I know,
Did she see how forlorn, how dejected I lie;
How round me the night breezes chillily blow,
How fast fall the dews from the comfortless sky!
* Whom the author had offended by the accidental revival of some melancholy recollections.
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