of this volume, I beseech him to remember that I am a poor Welch author, with a sturdy spouse, eleven thick babes, and only three pair of breeches between them that I am pressed, as it were, into the service of an editor, without either knowledge or experience to support the title, and that in short, " my poverty, and not my will consents." W. F. D.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE PORTRAIT OF

“THE DYING MOTHER.”

She smiles-but in that smile of beauteousness
A sorrow lurks, like thunder in the cloud
Ting'd with its doubtful sunshine, happiness
Is dead to her; but from it's mantling shroud
The melancholy phantom speaks aloud,

In the lone spirit of departed hours.

She hears the voice of death, while sorrows crowd Upon her brain, and with refreshing show'rs Invigorate awhile affection's withered flow'rs.

Her cheek is pale-her eye is dim with weeping, And in the hollowness of that shrunk form, Death, like a snake within his cave, is sleeping Triumphant e'en in rest; his canker-worm Twines round each chord with youth with feeling warm, Curdling to ice the blood; while day by day, Some particle of life, some once prized charm, Goes from her, 'till the whole is swept away, Like twilight into gloom, with dark but sure decay.

Oh! God, that such a beautiful girl must go
So young into the tomb; but it must be-
Time, rolling time, must have his ebb and flow,
And we who sit upon his bank, must see
Each victim fade like bubbles o'er the sea
Of life, while we are powerless to save:
And we must hear the night wind shudderingly
Breathe it's wild dirge, and stormy billows rave,
As if they mourn'd for one, lone silent in the grave.

We weep when age sinks calmly in the tomb,
And
grey heads wither that have loved us well-
We weep, for long-past recollections come,
Saddening the soul like beauty's passing knell;
But oh! what thoughts embitter the farewell,

7

When friends we once have loved and doated on,
Young innocent friends, sink in their narrow cell,

We weep-but dare not think that they are gone; For when doth winter come, e'er yet sweet spring has

flown?

THE SHIPWRECKED SISTER.

That ocean wave-that ocean wave,
It rolls above my sister's grave,
Hymning a requiem deep and dull,
For her who once was beautiful.

When last yon harvest moon was bright,
She rambled underneath its light;
Yon harvest moon is waning slow,
But Isabel! where is she now?

I dare not tell-I dare not tell,
Go, ask the surge that swept her knell;
"Twill answer in each hollow tone,
That winds were high, and she is gone.

I saw her die-I saw her die,
She fixed on me her closing eye,
In fond farewell, I rushed to save,
But she was in her ocean grave.

She died away-she died away,
Like west-winds on a summer day;

The harvest moon looked down from high, But she was with eternity.

When all was o'er-when all was o'er,
The wave rolled calmly to the shore,
The wind slept, and the sullen sea,
Seemed weeping for its cruelty.

I wander'd home-I wander'd home,
"Twas dark as is the silent tomb,
For I had not one friend to bless,
My charnel-house of loneliness.

The harp that spoke-the harp that spoke
A sister's love-e'en that was broke,
And summer winds came laughing by,
As if to mock my agony.

Now fare thee well-now fare thee well,
My sister-ocean rings thy knell,
And sea-nymphs in their caverns rude,
Are nursing thy sweet solitude.

ODE TO THE DEVIL.

Hail! prince of darkness, sire of evil, "Most potent, grave, and reverend" devil,

A word with you I pray;

How is it that, despite of warning,

From court to camp, from night to morning, You rule, and we obey?

You give the word, away we go,
Thro' thick and thin, our zeal to show,

From folly into vice;

While virtue starves in roofless garret,
With none but rats and mice to share it,
You ask your market-price.

You set the fashions-sway the nation,Converting what was once damnation,