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But 'mid the billows still was seen

The stranger's struggling form;

And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm

He buffeted the wave,

The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.

Was, then, the love of pelf so strong,
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,

Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;

For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem

That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled, till o'erspent,

His nerveless limbs no more

Could bear him on through the waves that rose

Like barriers to the shore;

Yet still he held his long-prized wealth,

He saw the wish'd-for land

A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died

Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bow'd down his haughty soul;

To the Cricket.

Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoëns' humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

To the Cricket.

BY THE REV. THOMAS COLE.

SPE

PRIGHTLY cricket, chirping still
Merry music, short and shrill:

In my kitchen take thy rest

As a truly welcome guest;

For no evils shall betide

Those with whom thou dost reside.
Nor shall thy good-omen'd strain
E'er salute my ear in vain.
With the best I can invent
I'll requite the compliment;
Like thy sonnets, I'll repay
Little sonnets, quick and gay.

Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd,
And by housewives much esteem'd,

Wilt not pillage for thy diet,

Nor deprive us of our quiet;

Like the horrid rat voracious,
Or the lick'rish mouse sagacious;
Like the herd of vermin base,
Or the pilfering reptile race :

357

But content art thou to dwell
In thy chimney-corner cell;
There, unseen, we hear thee greet,
Safe and snug, thy native heat.

Thou art happier, happier far,
Than the happy grasshopper,
Who, by nature, doth partake
Something of thy voice and make;
Skipping lightly o'er the grass,
As her sunny minutes pass;
For a summer month or two
She can sing and sip the dew;
But at Christmas, as in May,
Thou art ever brisk and gay,
Thy continued song we hear,
Trilling, thrilling, all the year.

Every day and every night
Bring to thee the same delight;
Winter, summer, cold or hot,
Late or early, matters not;
Mirth and music still declare
Thou art ever void of care:
Whilst with sorrows and with fears,
We destroy our days and years;
Thou, with constant joy and song,
Every minute dost prolong,
Making thus thy little span,

Longer than the age of Man.

Song.

359

Song.

BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)

RE other eyes beguiling, Love?

ARE

Are other rose-lips smiling, Love?
Ah! heed them not; you will not find
Lips more true, or eyes more kind,
Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love?
Are other fond sighs breathing, Love?
Ah! heed them not; but call to mind
The arms, the sighs, you leave behind-
All thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
Breathe not other sighs, Love;

You may find many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love-

All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
Fonder still, 'mid sadness, Love;

Though changed from all that now thou art,
In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart

Would be the world to me, Love,

The Unknown Grave.

By D. M. MOIR.

"Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.”—JEREMY Taylor.

WHO sleeps below ?—who sleeps below?—

WE

It is a question idle all !

Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call?

They murmur in the trees around,

And mock thy voice,—an empty sound!

A hundred summer suns have shower'd

Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright;
A hundred winter storms have lower'd

With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
And, from his youth to labour wed,

From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread ?

Say, died he ripe, and full of years,
Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld,

When sound was silence to his ears,

And the dim eyeball sight withheld;

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