ABJURATION.

BY MISS BOWLES.

THERE was a time-sweet time of youthful folly!Fantastic woes I courted, feigned distress; Wooing the veiled phantom, Melancholy,

With passion born, like Love, "in idleness."

And like a lover, like a jealous lover,

I hid mine idol with a miser's art,

(Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover), Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart.

And there I sought her-oft in secret sought her, From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play, To wear away, by some deep stilly water,

In greenwood lone, the livelong summer day,

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers,
The flying rack athwart the wavy grass;
And murmuring oft, "Alack! this life of ours-
Such are its joys-so swiftly doth it pass!"

And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden!)
Bedropt the liquid glass, like summer rain;
And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden,

Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain.

And then, I loved to haunt lone burial-places,
Pacing the church-yard earth with noiseless tread;-
To pore
in new-made graves for ghastly traces,
Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead:

To think of passing bells—of death and dying-
Methought 't were sweet in early youth to die,
So loved, lamented-in such sweet sleep lying,
The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary

Strewed o'er by loving hands!-But then 't would grieve me
Too sore, forsooth! the scene my fancy drew;
I could not bear the thought, to die and leave ye;
And I have lived, dear friends! to weep for you.

And I have lived to prove that fading flowers

Are life's best joys, and all we love and prizeWhat chilling rains succeed the summer showers, What bitter drops, wrung slow from elder eyes.

And I have lived to look on Death and dying,
To count the sinking pulse-the shortening breath,—
To watch the last faint life-streak flying-flying,-
To stoop to start-to be alone with- Death.

And I have lived to wear the smile of gladness,
When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold—
When all earth's joys seemed mockery and madness,
And life more tedious than "a tale twice told."

And now-and now, pale pining Melancholy!
No longer veiled for me your haggard brow
In pensive sweetness—such as youthful folly
Fondly conceited—I abjure ye now!

Away-avaunt! No longer now I call ye

"Divinest Melancholy! mild, meek maid!" No longer may your siren spells enthral me, A willing captive in your baleful shade.

Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter—
The sparkling glance of Pleasure's roving eye.
The past is past.-Avaunt, thou dark Hereafter!
"Come, eat and drink-to-morrow we must die !"

So, in his desperate mood, the fool hath spoken-
The fool whose heart hath said, "there is no God."
But for the stricken heart, the spirit broken,

There's balm in Gilead yet. The very rod,

If we but kiss it, as the stroke descendeth,

Distilleth balm to allay the inflicted smart,
And "Peace that passeth understanding," blendeth
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart.

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation —

No longer feigned distress-fantastic woe,— I know my griefs, but then my consolationMy trust, and my immortal hopes I know. Blackwood's Magazine.

ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

Ye dear companions of my silent hours,
Whose pages oft before my eyes would strew
So many sweet and variegated flowers
Dear Books, awhile, perhaps for aye, adieu!
The dark cloud of misfortune o'er me lours:
No more by winter's fire-in summer's bowers,
My toil-worn mind shall be refreshed by you:
We part! sad thought! and while the damp devours
Your leaves, and the worm slowly eats them through,
Dull Poverty and its attendant ills,

Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care,

And the world's cold neglect, which surest kills,
Must be my bitter doom; yet I shall bear

Unmurmuring, for my good perchance these evils are.

Literary Examiner.

THE CAPTIVE.

WAKE not the waters with thine oar,
My gentle gondolier!

The whispers of the wave and shore

Still linger on my ear.

Lonely the night, and dark its sleep,
And few the stars that glow
Within the mirror of the deep
That lies outspread below.

But fix the mast, the sail unfurl,

My gentle gondolier!

The wind is soft-the calm waves curl

The sentry cannot hear.

And in this light, our little sail

May well escape his ken;

And we shall meet, ere dawning pale,

Our long-lost countrymen.

Long years the iron manacle,

My gentle gondolier!

Hath worn these limbs in death-damp cell,

Till they are stiff and sere.

Yet little heed I strengthless limb,

Or think of anguish past,

So we escape while night is dim,

And heaven is overcast.

"Hark! 'tis the wakeful sentry's call!"

Nay, nay, my gondolier!

We 're far from castle-moat and wall

The sentry cannot hear.

'Tis but the plunging sea-dog's feat,

Or wild bird on the cliff;

And lo! the wind is in our sheet,

More swiftly sails our skiff.

More swiftly, and more swiftly yet,

3

My gentle gondolier!

The gale is fresh-our sail is set-
And morn will soon be here.
Oh! ne'er did Hope so ardently
In human heart expand,

As mine, to see thee ere I die,
My own-my own loved land!

Literary Magnet.

C. D. M.

WOMAN'S PRAYER.

SHE bowed her head before the throne
Of heaven's eternal King;
The sun upon her forehead shone,
Like some communing thing;
In meekness and in love she stood,
Pale, lonely in her care;

But pure and strong is womanhood
In faithfulness and prayer.

The people of her father's land
Had left their fathers' path,

And God had raised his threat'ning hand
Against them in his wrath :

Her voice arose with theirs-the few,
Who still were faithful there;

And peace was given, and healing dew,
To woman's voice of prayer.

The king sat in his purple state
Apart, dominion-robed;

But there was darkness in his fate,

His sickening heart was probed;