When Egypt's tombs shall all be rent, And earth's proud temples swept away, Your deeds, a deathless monument!Shall guard your glory from decay. Courier.

A FAREWELL.

BY LORD BYRON.

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
Yet ere I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee.

Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,

Here's a heart for any fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,

"Tis to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore !

Morning Chronicle.

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO A LADY, ON READING ROMEO AND JULIET.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Of love and sorrow, 'tis a peerless tale!—
Then press it softly to thy gentle breast;
I'll share the fear that makes thy pure cheek pale ;
I'll guess the wish that may not be confessed.
Unhappy pair!—And yet to them was given
That earthly joy, which tasteth most of heaven.
Oh! sweet and bitter, let our mixt tears flow,
Where, on the grave of Love, the drooping violets grow.

To mortals there is given a fleeting life :

A life!-Ah! no; a wild, vain, hurrying dream!A tempest of pride-passion-sin-and strife! A deep, dark, restless, ever-foaming stream! When fortune lifts us high, or sinks us low, We feel the motion-know not where we go; Love only, like the oil upon the sea,

Gives to man's tossing soul repose and liberty.

"Tis true, that they who love, are seldom born To a smooth destiny.-Love buds in peace, But foulest wizards in the air have sworn

To blast its beauty ere the leaves increase.
The lovers dare not look-fiends watch their eyes;-
They dare not speak-fiends intercept their sighs;—
A spell is on them—mute—o'er mastering ;—
Dumb sorrow o'er them waves her dark, depressing

But let the faint heart yield him as he may,
Danger sits powerless on Love's steady breast;

The lovers shrink not in the evil day ;-
They are afflicted-but are not opprest.

[wing.

To die together, or victorious live—

That first and holiest vow, 'tis theirs to give ;
United!-Though in fetters-they are free!-

[be!

They care not though the grave their bridal bed should

It may be, that if love's expanding flower

Is forced to close before the storm's keen breath,
That closing may protract the blooming hour,
Which is so short in all that suffers death.
The silence, and the sorrow, and the pain,
May nourish that, which they attack in vain.

The lowly flame burns longest.-Humble sadness

Is kindlier to love's growth than free unvaried gladness.

But oh! how glorious shone their ruling star,

Which carried them with budding loves to heaven; Whom angels welcomed in bright realms afar,

With a full cup, which scarce to taste was given, While any remnant of terrestrial sin

Had power to stain the holy draught within!

They died:-Young love stood by them calmly sighing, And fanned, with his soft wing, the terrors of their dying.

Read not of Juliet, and her Romeo,

With tragic trembling, and uplifted hair;
Be mild, fair maid, and gentle in thy woe,

As in their death were that most innocent pair.
Upon the tomb o' the Capulets there gleams
No torch light-but a moon of tender beams.
Then hate not love, because a Juliet died,
But seek to sleep, like her, by a true lover's side.
Blackwood's Magazine.

A. W. S.

TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY.

O, Holy Spirit! oft when eve

Hath slowly o'er the western sky
Her gorgeous pall begun to weave

Of gold and crimson's richest dye,
I've thought the gentle gales thy breath,
The murmuring of the grove thy voice-
And heaven above, and earth beneath,
In thee seemed to rejoice.

Sweet visions then, that sleep by day,
Thy magic wand hath made mine own,
As brilliant as the clouds that play
Around the sun's descending throne;
And I have striven in many a song
To pay my homage at thy shrine :-
A worthless offering, for a throng
Of joys, by thee made mine.

What though the idle wreath would fade
By weak, though willing fingers twined,
Soon gathered to oblivion's shade;

Not less the task would soothe my mind. Inspired by thee, I cease to pine,

Nor thought on aught that crossed my bliss, And borne to other worlds of thine, Forgot the pangs of this.

But this was all in earlier days,

When boyhood's hopes were wild and high,

And eaglet-like, I fixed my gaze

Where glory's sun blazed through the sky;

But fate and circumstance forbade

The noble, though presumptuous flight;
Those hopes are blasted and decayed
By disappointment's blight,

My soul is daring now, as then,
Though fate denies its strong desire-
Still, still, I hear the voice within,

The stirring voice that cries' aspire!'
It haunts me like the sounds that ring
In dying guilt's distempered ear,
When round his couch, dim,-hovering,—
His crimes, like ghosts, appear.

And, aye, some demon in my sight

Displays what wreaths for others bloom, The fame that gilds their life with light, The halo that surrounds their tomb; 'And gaze, presumptuous fool!' he cries, 'Unhonoured-blest thou ne'er shalt be'But pine for ever, there to rise

'Where springs no flower for thee.'

Oh, Poesy! thou too hast now
Withdrawn thy wonted influence,
When most I need thy tender glow
To renovate my aching sense.
No more thy dreams before me pass
In swift succession, bright and fair;
And when I would unveil thy glass,
Thou show'st me but Despair.

Whenever, now, I seek the bowers,
Where fancy led my steps to thee,
Before my eyes a desert lours,-
The cold reality I see.

My gloomy bosom's joyless cell,

No ray of thine illumines more,

Which once could guide my spirit well

O'er every ill to soar.

By all the intense love of thee

Which fires my soul, and thrills my frame!