Oh, no, by Heaven, another here

Thou canst not-must not bring;

No, keep it--but one little year,

Keep poor Eliza's ring.

TO JESSY.

Byron.

[Addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation.]

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none.

There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight-

By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night.

There is a voice whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breast

I would not hear a seraph choir,

Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face whose blushes tell

Affection's tale upon the cheek

But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a lip, which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before;
It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only, prest it more.

There is a bosom-all my own-
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An

eye whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet;

That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

That both must heave-or cease to beat.

There are two souls whose equal flow
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part!—ah! no,
They cannot part-those souls are one.

STANZAS TO

YES!-thou art wed!-I know it all-
Yet why remind me of my pain?
Why let that magic smile recal

Hopes that must never bloom again?

By the author of " Astarte," and "Melancholy Hours."

Vain is the wish, that Time's cold wing
May all the griefs I feel remove;
Since future years no balm can bring,
To heal the pangs of slighted love!

No! now, life's fairest scenes must be
A weary waste of tedious hours;
A gloomy, cheerless waste to me,

Where thorns usurp the place of flowers!

The past, it now might almost seem
The phantom of a fever'd brain;
But that to prove 'twas not a dream,
Thine image and my griefs remain !

The future,-'tis a cheerless gloom,
That has no ray of hope for me,
Save what is veil'd beyond the tomb,
And shrouded in eternity!

Then do not tell me I shall live

To think on thee without regret ; Though time may teach me to forgive, It cannot teach me to forget!

Say not, when love has ceased to burn,
When reason shall my passion end,
In calmer hours I may return,

And claim the sacred name of friend.

No, never! friendship such as mine
Were like the fatal Simoom's breath

To souls as good and pure as thine,
Blasting the flower it loves with death!

We'll meet no more! may smiling years
Still o'er thy path new blessings shower;
And may the memory of my tears

Ne'er rise to damp one festive hour!

FROM THE ARABIC OF TOGRAI.

Anonymous.

THOU sleep'st, while the eyes of the planets are watching,
Regardless of love and of me;

I sleep, but my dreams, at thy lineaments catching,
Present me with nothing but thee.

Thou art changed, while the colour of night changes not,
Like the fading allurements of day;

I am changed, for all beauty to me seems a blot,
While the joy of my heart is away.

NELL GWYNN.

Alaric Watts.

Written after viewing a Portrait (supposed to be of this celebrated beauty) by Sir Peter Lely, from the collection of R. Cracroft, Esq.

BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl !
We have heard of teeth of pearl,

Lips of coral, cheeks of rose,

Necks and brows like drifted snows,
Eyes as diamonds sparkling bright,
Or the stars of summer's night,
And expression, grace, and soul,
Softly tempering down the whole;
But a form so near divine,
With a face so fair as thine,
And so sunny-bright a brow,
Never met my gaze till now;
Thou wert Venus' sister twin,
If this shade be thine, Nell Gwyn!

Cast that carcanet away,-
Thou hast need of no display-
Gems, however rare, to deck
Such an alabaster neck!

Can the brilliant's lustre vie
With the glories of thine eye?
Or the ruby's red compare
With the two lips breathing there?
Can they add a richer glow
To thy beauties? No, sweet, no!
Though thou bear'st the name of one
Whom 'twas virtue once to shun,
It were, sure, to taste, a sin,
Now to pass thee by, Nell Gwyn !

But they've wrong'd thee-and I swear
By thy brow so dazzling fair,
By the light subdued that flashes
From thy drooping lids' silk lashes,
By the deep blue eyes beneath them,
By the clustering curls that wreathe them,