And at times like a lamb in a low grassy vale, But no image of gloom, or of care, or of strife, He was one, who, in youth, on the stormy seas, Was a far and a fearless ranger; Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, Had deem'd lightly of death or of danger. Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept And here, when the bustle of youth was past, He liv'd, and he lov'd,-and he died too ;O! why was affection, which death could out-last, A more lengthen'd enjoyment denied to? But here he slumbers! and many there are THE WEEPING WILLOW. BENEATH a weeping willow The stream was gently flowing Beneath her downcast eyes; The breezes, softly blowing, Were mingled with her sighs, My love, said she, lies dreaming A syren nymph adores him, A wreath of sea-weeds twining, Her emerald tresses flowing, Illume the crystal flood, Resplendent rays bestowing From many a brilliant stud. Her eyes like sapphires beaming, Her white robe floats around, Her breast with rapture teeming, With bands of rubies bound. Ah! now he beckons smiling, Her syren voice beguiling, Upon the green wave gliding Then fare thee well, false rover, The stream its murmuring keeps, CANZONET. JOHN BOWDLER, JUN. ESQ. 'Tis sweet, when in the glowing west The sun's bright wheels their course are leaving, Upon the azure ocean's breast To watch the dark wave slowly heaving. And oh! at glimpse of early morn, When holy monks their beads are telling, 'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn From glen to mountain wildly swelling. And it is sweet, at mid-day hour, 'Tis sweet, where nodding rocks around The night-shade dark is wildly wreathing, To listen to some solemn sound, From harp or lyre divinely breathing. And sweeter yet the genuine glow Of youthful friendship's high devotion, Responsive to the voice of woe, When heaves the breast with strong emotion. And youth is sweet, with many a joy, In tranquil thought and silent pleasure. For He who gave the life we share, And dress'd in smiles the blush of morning. MADNESS. Written on a cliff at Cromer. NORGATE. HUSH, hush, Eliza-hush, my love, nor wake, 'Twas erst, an aged ghost embroil'd the night, When Julia, 'midst the sinking sea-men's howl, Alone was silent-was alone resign'd,— And in a world of waters made her grave. The shattered vessel sunk,-this wretch escap'd, And no one liv'd to tell the fearful tale, Save his lorn self!. But ever since, on yonder craggy cliff, When Night rolls darkness from her hundred bills, Bereft of reason, this poor piteous soul Stalks fearless on the brink, and calls for Julia! Sometimes, when heaven and earth should seem convuls'd, When every toughest oar lies cleft in twain; See, see, Eliza! now he bends his knee- |