She gave him all a fond girl's heart,
She clasp'd his hand, nor dreamt of guile!

'Tis over now! 'lis over now!

Seem like the pulses of the natural world-
A measurement by which the lapse of time
To man is noted ;-and thy slumberous breath
Floats landward; even like zephyr on my check
I feel it; and the lilac boughs, o'erhead,
Just stirred, from every tuft of richest bloom
Shake down sweet incense. In the Northern sky,
Twilight hath spread her dusky mantle blue,
O'er the coned Lomonds, down to where the May,
On this side views the Forth, on that the plain
Of the broad German sea. Thy nearer crest,
Inchkeith, yet shows of green ;-and lo! tly light
Well-loved by mariners—to wandering hearts
Speaking of home-delights—'lis now a speck,
And now a flaring metcor.

Ilark the note
Of the near blackbird from the greening bough
Of yon broad chestnut-'is a funeral hymn
O'er day departed! To the listening sky
"Tis sung, and to the gathering stars, the green
Of all the dewy pastures, and the blue
Of wandering rivulets that mirror heaven.

'Tis over now! 'tis over now!

She never deemed that voice so dear, Which oft to her pledged-fond love's vow,

Would pour that vow in other's ear:
She never feared that that dark eye,

Which beamed so oft with love's own ray,
As if that ray could ne'er pass by,
Could calmly, coldly, turn away!

"T'is over now! 'tis orer now!

'Tis over now! 'tis over now!

The heartless farewell speech she heard, The cold dew stood upon her brow,

Her white lips whispered not a word! Upon his parting form she gazed

With motionless and tearless eye! He passed !-the once bright eye was glazed, The heart was still !-she could but die! "Tis over now! 'tis over now!

D.

IV.

From the Court Magazine.

Pleasant it is, within this woven bower Of wildrose, hop, and honeysuckle boughs,While perfume from the apple-blossom breathes, And Sky, Earth, Air, and Ocean are at rest, Lingering to listen. Father, which art in Heaven! Thy works proclaim thee,-morn, and noon, and night, Are full of thee-Oh! were we wise to learn!

TO A FOSSIL FERN.

Child of an ancient world! o'er whom the storms

That shatter'd empires silently have rolld,

What awful mysteries could'st thou unfold Of Chance and Change in all their various forms! Thy frond-like leaves were blooming when in glory,

Proud Rome and Egypt each beheld its prime, And doubtless thou could'st tell us many a story

Of mighty victors of the olden time. Geology, with microscopic eye,

Regards thee as a phantom metaphoric;
While Chemistry, whose flight is always high,

Claims thee as a production meteoric;
But sister Poesy seems half afraid,
And wisely keeps her learning in the shade.