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ELLEN!

A FRAGMENT.

Is she not beautiful, although so pale?
The first May flowers are not more colourless
Than her white cheek; yet I recal the time
When she was called the rosebud of our village.
There was a blush, half modesty, half health,
Upon her cheek, fresh as the summer morn
With which she rose ;-a cloud of chesnut curls,
Like twilight, darkened o'er her blue-veined brow;
And through their hazel curtains, eyes, whose light
Was like the violet's, when April skies

Have given their own pure colour to the leaves,
Shone sweet and silent, as the twilight star.
And she was happy :-innocence and hope
Make the young heart a paradise for love.
And she was loved, and loved. The youth was one
That dwelled on the waters. He had been
Where sweeps the blue Atlantic, a wide world;—
Had seen the sun light up the flowers, like gems,
In the bright Indian isles ;-had breathed the air
When sweet with cinnamon, and gum, and spice.
But he said that no air brought health, or balm,
Like that on his own hills, when it had swept
O'er orchards in their bloom, or hedges, where
Blossomed the hawthorn and the honeysuckle;
That, but one voyage more, and he would come
To his dear Ellen and her cottage home-
Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kissed
Her tears away, talked of the pleasant years
Which they should pass together—of the pride
He would take in his constancy. Oh, hope
Is very eloquent! and as the hours
Passed by their fireside in calm cheerfulness,
Ellen forgot to weep.

At length the time

Of parting came; 'twas the first month of Spring;-
Like a green fan spread the horse-chesnut's leaves,
A shower of yellow bloom was on the elm,
The daisies shone like silver, and the boughs
Were covered with their blossoms, and the sky
Was like an augury of hope, so clear,
So beautifully blue. Love! oh young love!
Why hast thou not security! Thou art
Like a bright river, on whose course the weeds
Are thick and heavy; briers are on its banks,
And jagged stones and rocks are mid its waves.
Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush
Over its many obstacles, and pant

For some green valley, as its quiet home.
Alas! either it rushes with a desperate leap
Over its barriers, foaming passionate,
But prisoned still; or, winding languidly,
Becomes dark, like oblivion; or, else wastes
Itself away. This is love's history.

They parted one spring evening; the green sea
Had scarce a curl upon its wave; the ship
Rode like a queen of ocean. Ellen wept,
But not disconsolate, for she had hope;—
She knew not then the bitterness of tears.

But night closed in, and with the night there came
Tempest upon the wind; the beacon light
Glared like a funeral pile; all else was black
And terrible as death. We heard a sound
Come from the ocean :-one lone signal gun,
Asking for help in vain-followed by shrieks,
Mocked by the ravening gale; then deepest silence.
Some gallant souls had perished. With the first
Dim light of morn, they sought the beach; and there
Lay fragments of a ship, and human shapes,
Ghastly and gashed. But the worst sight of all-

The sight of living misery met their gaze.

Seated upon a rock, drenched by the rain,

Her hair torn by the wind, there Ellen sat,
Pale, motionless. How could love guide her there?
A corpse lay by her; in her arms its head
Found a fond pillow, and o'er it she watched,
As the young mother watches her first child.
It was her lover.-

Ackermann's 'Forget me not.'

L. E. L.

SONG,

OF A GERMAN TROBADOUR.

TRANSLATED BY W. ROSCOE, ESQ.

THERE sat upon the linden tree
A bird, and sang its strain;
So sweet it sang, that as I heard
My heart went back again.
It went to one remembered spot,
It saw the rose-trees grow,
And thought again the thoughts of love,
There cherished long ago.

A thousand years to one it seems,
Since by my fair I sat ;

Yet thus to be a stranger long,

Is not my choice, but fate;

Since then I have not seen the flowers,

Nor heard the bird's sweet song:
My joys have all too briefly past,
My griefs been all too long.

From Mr. T. Roscoe's Translation of Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe.

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

THE music ceased, the last quadrille was o'er,
And one by one the waning beauties fled;
The garlands vanished from the frescoed floor,
The nodding fiddler hung his weary head.

And I-a melancholy single man—

Retired to mourn my solitary fate.-
I slept awhile; but o'er my slumbers ran
The sylph-like image of my blooming Kate.

I dreamt of mutual love, and Hymen's joys,
Of happy moments and connubial blisses;
And then I thought of little girls and boys,

The mother's glances, and the infant's kisses.

I saw them all, in sweet perspective sitting
In winter's eve around a blazing fire,
The children playing and the mother knitting,
Or fondly gazing on the happy Sire.

The scene was changed.-In came the Baker's bill:
I stared to see the hideous consummation
Of pies and puddings that it took to fill
The bellies of the rising generation.

There was no end to eating :—legs of mutton
Were vanquished daily by this little host;
To see them, you'd have thought each tiny glutton
Had laid a wager who could eat the most.

The massy pudding smoked upon the platter,
The ponderous sirloin reared its head in vain ;—
The little urchins kicked up such a clatter,

That scarce a remnant e'er appeared again.

Then came the School bill:-Board and Education So much per annum; but the extras mounted

To nearly twice the primal stipulation,
And every little bagatelle was counted!

To mending tuck ;-A new Homeri Ilias ;

A pane of glass ;-Repairing coat and breeches ;A slate and pencil;-Binding old Virgilius;— Drawing a tooth ;-An open draft, and leeches.

And now I languished for the single state,

The social glass, the horse and chaise on Sunday, The jaunt to Windsor with my sweetheart Kate, And cursed again the weekly bills of Monday.

Here Kate began to scold,-I stampt and swore, The kittens squeak, the children loudly scream; And thus awaking with the wild uproar,

I thanked my stars that it was but a dream. Literary Gazette.

TIME'S SWIFTNESS.

BY THE HON. R. W. SPENCER.

Too late I staid ;-forgive the crime,—
Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time

That only treads on flowers!

What eye

with clear account remarks

The ebbings of the glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks,
Which dazzle as they pass?

Oh! who to sober measurement
Time's happy fleetness brings,
When Birds of Paradise have lent

Their plumage for his wings!

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