'THE daylight is gone-but, before we depart,
One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear,
That I shed while I name him, how kind and how dear!'

'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree,
With a few who could feel and remember like me,
The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw,
Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you!

1 Pinkerton has said that a good history and the Government of the day, was a wild and use. description of the Bermudas might afford a pleas- less speculation. Mr. Hamilton, who was ing addition to the geographical library; but governor of the island some years since, prothere certainly are not materials for such a work. posed, if I mistake not, the establishment of a The island, since the time of its discovery, has marine academy for the instruction of those experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people children of West Indians who might be intended have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, for any nautical employment. This was a more that there is but little which the historian could rational idea, and for something of this nature amplify into importance; and, with respect to the island is admirably calculated. But the plan the natural productions of the country, the few should be much more extensive, and embrace a which the inhabitants can be induced to culti-general system of education, which would entirely vate are so common in the West Indies, that remove the alternative in which the colonists are they have been described by every naturalist who involved at present, of either sending their sons has written any account of those islands. to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in the States of America, where ideas by no means favourable to Great Britain are very sedulously inculcated.

It is often asserted by the transatlantic politicians, that this little colony deserves more attention from the mother-country than it receives; and it certainly possesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible ifit were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a celebrated friend of Washington, at New York, that they had formed a plan for its capture towards the conclusion of the American War, with the intention (as he expressed himself) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyance of British trade in that part of the world.' And there is no doubt it lies so fairly in the track to the West Indies, that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very harassing impediment.

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American savages might be converted an 1 educated, though concurred in by

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, have an affectionate languor in their look and manner, which is always interesting. What the French imply by their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the young Bermudian girls-that predisposition to loving, which, without being awakened by any particu lar object, diffuses itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I confess, are not very civilised; and the old philosopher, who imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into mules, and women into turtle doves, would find the metamorphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda,

Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour
Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower
And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new!
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him,
Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair,
And would pine in Elysium, if friends were not there?

Last night, when we came from the calabash-tree,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play,
And oh-such a vision as haunted me then
I could slumber for ages to witness again!
The many I like, and the few I adore,

The friends, who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here!
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle ;
Serener the wave, as they looked on it, flowed,
And warmer the rose, as they gathered it, glowed!
Not the valleys Heræan (though watered by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,1
Where the song of the shepherd, primeval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature Heaven!

Oh, magic of love! unembellished by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art,

Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart?

Alas! that a vision so happy should fade !

That, when morning around me in brilliancy played,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night

Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;

While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream,

And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream!

But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away 2
Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind!
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lea of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me!

1 Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

A ship, ready to sail for England.

Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam
Of the wave that would carry your wanderer home!

LOVE AND REASON.

'Quand l'homme commence à raisonner, il cesse de sentir.'-J. J. Rousseau.

"TWAS in the summer-time so sweet,

When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That-who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,

While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
While Reason like a Juno stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
A lengthened shadow as she walked.
No wonder Love, as on they passed,
Should find the sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell on the boy, and cooled him still.
In vain he tried his wings to warm,
Or find a pathway not so dim,
For still the maid's gigantic form

Would pass between the sun and him!

'This must not be,' said little Love-
'The sun was made for more than you.'
So, turning through a myrtle grove,
He bid the portly nymph adieu!

Now gaily roves the laughing boy

O'er many a mead, by many a stream;

In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He culled the many sweets they shaded,
And ate the fruits and smelt the flowers,
Till taste was gone and odour faded!

But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Looked blazing o'er the parched plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrilled through all his veins!

The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with vivid bloom he smiled-
Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,
To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning,
He saw the nymph reclining calm,
With brow as cool as his was burning!

'Oh! take me to that bosom cold,'
In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason oped her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired on Reason's breast!

TO FANNY.

NAY, do not weep, my Fanny dear!
While in these arms you lie;
The world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to claim one precious tear
From that beloved eye!

The world !-ah, Fanny! Love must shun

The path where many rove;

One bosom to recline upon,
One heart, to be his only one,

Are quite enough for Love!

What can we wish, that is not here
Between your arms and mine?
Is there on earth a space so dear,
As that within the blessed sphere
Two loving arms entwine?

For me, there's not a lock of jet
Along your temples curled,
Within whose glossy, tangling net,
My soul doth not, at once, forget
All, all the worthless world!

'Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love!
My only worlds I see;

Let but their orbs in sunshine move,
And earth below, and skies above

May frown or smile for me!