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If 'tis the end of every hope and vow,
To yearn to be again as thou art now!

Oh! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life,

To live to know that bliss is but pretenceThat gaining nothing in this earthly strife, We only toil to forfeit innocence !

The profit nothing, but remorse the expense! Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state, And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date.

Thou art an old pretender, grey-beard Age;

Thou boastest much, and yet art but a cheat; And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage,

Would turn again with no unwilling feet :— Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet. If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign, As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline. Blackwood's Magazine.

T. D.

ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN.

'Tis a most wondrous mockery of life!

A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink,

Is all I gaze upon; and yet how rife

With beauty and devotion! One might drink
From those meek, pensive lips, and drooping eyes
Love that would lift a demon to the skies,
Or plant an Eden on Destruction's brink!

Sure, on her saintly smile we need but look

To read the entrancing promise of that Book
Which in one hand she clasps; and dare we think

Of virgin youth and loveliness, and bliss

Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this,-

But no-still, still be the fair fingers prest

Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast.

LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

Missolonghi, January 22, 1824.

"On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year.”

"Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone,

The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone.

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is like to some volcanic isle,

No torch is kindled at its blaze :

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love, I cannot share;

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-it is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now,

Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece-she is awake!

Awake, my spirit,-think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake—

And then strike home!

Tread all reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood-unto thee,
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be!

If thou regret'st thy youth-why live?—

The land of honourable death

Is here-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

SAPPHO.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Look on this brow!-the laurel wreath
Beamed on it, like a wreath of fire;

For passion gave the living breath,
That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre!

Look on this brow!-the lowest slave,

The veriest wretch of want and care,

Might shudder at the lot that gave
Her genius, glory, and despair.

For, from these lips were uttered sighs,

That, more than fever, scorched the frame; And tears were rained from these bright eyes, That from the heart, like life-blood, came.

ON A NEW-MADE GRAVE,

NEAR BOLTON PRIORY.

SWEET be thy rest! near holy shrine
A purer relic never lay:
A grave of blessedness is thine,

More rich than piles of sculptured clay.

For softly on these peaceful knolls
The feet of happy wanderers tread;
While Wharf his silver chariot rolls
In music oe'r his ample bed.

And none are here but those who come
In gentle indolence to roam,

Or feed in Bolton's holy gloom

Sweet memories of a distant home.

Sweet be thy rest!-the toils and woes
Of man, have left this magic bound,
Since Beauty's awful genius chose,

And breathed upon the sacred ground.

Those cliffs where purple shadows creep,
The stream scarce gleaming through the dell,
These giant groves that guard its sleep,
The present power of Beauty tell.

The crosier's place, the altar-stone,
Now echo gentle wisdom's speech;
And those dim cloisters, mute and lone,
Their meek and holy moral teach.

The shrine, the mitred Abbot's niche,
Where once unheeded incense spread,
Now with the woodbine's wreath is rich,

And sweets from vagrant roses shed.

Changed to a bounteous Baron's hall,

His gateway greets the wandering guest, And only on its arrased wall

The frowning warrior lifts his crest.

Where by a lonely taper's light

The cowled and captive bigot knelt, Now summer-suns beam cheerly bright, And evening's softest shadows melt.

Where once the yelling torrent's jaws
Death to the youthful hunter gave,
Scarce frolic beauty feigns a pause,

Then trusts her light foot to the wave.

Emblem of passion's changeful tide!

The flood that wrecked the heedless boy In after years is taught to glide

Through sheltering bowers of social joy.

For such a tomb of sweets and flowers,
By social gladness sacred made,
Midst warbling streams and golden bowers,
The priest of Persia's Eden prayed.

But far from thee shall be the torch

Of frantic mirth and impious rite; A Christian Hafiz guards the porch, And decks the Garden of Delight.

And only kindred hearts can bear

The smiling peace that slumbers here;

None but the pure in spirit dare

Gaze on a scene to heaven so near.

European Magazine.

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