Once as Ellen wandered there,
Edwin met the musing fair:

"Ellen! sister! whence that sigh?
"Heaves that pensive bosom why?

"Doés a gentle passion pure,

Artless, angel-holy, move

"Ellen's breast, her heart allure

"Sister Ellen! is it love?
Sighs, suppressing now their swell,
Edwin marked-a tear too fell-
"Ellen! whence the half-formed sigh?
"And the tender tear-drop why?"

"Twas not love. Too long the maid
Edwin's open, noble mien,
Sickness' hue had seen o'ershade,

Death's approaches silent seen.
Sorrow held her bosom's sway:
But fond Ellen could not say
"Brother! 'tis for thee I sigh:
"Dearest Brother! wilt thou die?"

On his cheek life's sunset glow

Lingered, ere the spirit fled:

Some sad months have passed, and now,
Ellen, Ellen too, is dead!
Trav'ler! while their native bells,
And the tale the shepherd tells,
Claim thine ear, bedew thine eye,
Think each sinking peal a sigh.

TO

I dreamed my love had flown for ever: 'Twas but a dream; I love thee yet:

Vain the resolve to soften never,

And years of effort to forget.

I see thee: and again that form
Of lightest ease, of loveliest grace,
That eye-that smile-renew the storm,
Despair had hushed in seeming peace.

Ah! seeming; for the features' change
From healthful bloom to sickly fair;
And vacant eye's scarce conscious range,
Had tranquil looked, though death were there.

I see thee: and the sight has told me
What pride had vainly long concealed:
I can but love, if I behold thee!

-A love, in heaven alone revealed.

Hide me in thy 'kerchief's glow:

The wind blows bleak, though June be near,

And warmer is thy bosom's snow.

Let me nestle, Isabel!

And lurk, where love himself might dwell; My breath as sweet as sigh of youth,

Dearest to that pure bosom's truth.

"Twas his hand that plucked me, Fair! Shrinking in my early bloom:

Kindly plucked-the ruder air

Soon had wrought me harsher doom. Happy fate the Rose shall prove, Recalling Isabella's love;

Yes-I die-but on thy breast,

Sinking in scented sighs to rest.

SONG.

MARY'S EYES.

FROM Mary's eyes, with azure beaming,
Though liquid tenderness distil,
"Tis but their softened lustre streaming
From orbs that pity's dew-drops fill.
E'en like some modest star, that, gleaming
Through heaven's serene, at eve appears;
More lovely, robed with halo, seeming,
More sweetly radiant, dressed in tears.
And as the sympathetic sorrow

Flies, like the nightly clouds that stray
Through ether, lovelier tints to borrow
From sunshine, the sweet smile of day;
So Mary's eyes a jocund morning,

A sunny dawn of smiles, will prove:
Each gentle look with joy adorning,
And all the cloudless light of love.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

BEAUTEOUS memento of one long too loved!
Fair chronicler of faith too dearly proved!

Thou lovely likeness-if I see HER not,

Whom thou too oft restor'st-when best forgot

Thou hast but mocked her still!-She's not more fair;

Scarce heaves her breast with happier swell;

The robe-why, aye, 'tis passing well;-
And I do see pourtrayed, with nicest care,

The ring, the brooch, I gave, and chaplet in her hair;
-Yet all expression's soul is wanting there!

Too cunning Artist, in the idle show

Of what I valued not, nor cared again to know,

Farewell!-and if again some angel-face,
And form thus rich in every speaking grace
Should claim thine art, thy neat minutiæ spare-
The flower, the jewel-but let MIND be there!

THE MANIAC TO HIS DOG.

YES, yes, Gentle Brute! that art sleeping reclined
On my rush-woven seat, thou art faithful and kind :
Yes, give me my Dog! and the universe tell,

It will ne'er give a thing I shall love half so well.

And who cried "Enthusiast"?-Poor worldling! was't you?

Thy brethren were traitors; my Dog here was true.
Men, men were my foes: for my Dog still I'll say,
That Fido could never deceive nor betray.

Once the world I was roaming: each vale and each hill
Smiled in sunshine, and drew my fond steps to it still.
It was but youth's yesterday!-frown they to-day?—
My Fido, as ever, looks gratefully gay.

The blithe mates of my childhood, who pictured life's hours

All summer-our business here platting its flowers What! cold as those fancies? slight-memoried? away? -Now Fido's my playmate, and ever he'll stay.

But hark! there was one promised truth to life's end: Him I yielded my bosom's key, called him my friend. Hark again! there was one a soft flame seemed to move: -And my friend proved a fiend, and a false one my love!

Up, Fido-that thought!-sooth this bosom so torn: Nay, but fawn not! 'tis like the base world we've for

sworn.

Still, still, honest Fido?-Poor Friend! have thy way; For thou art a friend that will never betray.

THE HOURS THAT HAVE PASSED.

On the Hours that have Passed, or in Friendship or Love,
Can the heart feel delighted to dwell?

With the shades of those hours as in vision to rove,
While remembrance repeats but their knell?

Yes, sweet is the joy-blended sorrow, whose thrill
Gives us back the gay glance, and the tongue's magic
sound;

And dear to the heart pensive Memory still

Though she pierce to its core, she has balm for the wound.

Fond Memory, yes! let the spirit expressed

In the smiles of life's frolicsome Spring,

Dance its wont with young Mirth in his holiday vest,
And its light and its rapture yet bring.

I will muse on those smiles, I will muse on the song
From the heart of congenial tone;

Nor droop, while by Fancy borne lightly along,
HOPE, cloud-seated HOPE, is my own.

Then come, ye soft shadows of joys that have been!
Return, as in vison, ye Hours!

Come-welcome to me as May sylphids in green,
Returning with sunshine and flowers.

For sweet is the smile-blended sorrow, whose thrill Gives us back the gay glance, and the tongue's magic sound;

And dear to the heart pensive Memory still

Though she pierce to its core, she has balm for the wound.

Youngman, Printer, Witham & Maldon, Essex.