At sunset with what eager feet

I hastened on to thee!

Scarce nine days passed us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together!

Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh,
A moment's memory when alone
Would bring thee to mine eye:
But now, my very dreams forget
That 'witching look to trace;
Though there thy beauty lingers yet,
It wears a stranger's face!

I felt a pride to name thy name,
But now that pride hath flown;

And burning blushes speak my shame
That thus I love thee on!

I felt I then thy heart did share,
Nor urged a binding vow;

But much I doubt if thou couldst spare
One word of kindness now.

Oh! what is now my name to thee,
Though once nought seemed so dear?

Perhaps a jest in hours of glee,

To please some idle ear.
And yet, like counterfeits, with me
Impressions linger on,

Though all the gilded finery

That passed for truth is gone!

Ere the world smiled upon my lays,
A sweeter meed was mine;
Thy blushing look of ready praise
Was raised at every line.

But now methinks thy fervent love
Is changed to scorn severe;
And songs that other hearts approve
Seem discord to thine ear.

When last thy gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell
Even loftier hopes than ours;
Spring bids full many buds to swell,
That ne'er can grow to flowers!

Literary Souvenir.

BOLTON ABBEY.

THIS is the loveliest scene in all the land; -
Around me far a green enchantment lies,
Fed by the weeping of these April skies,
And touched by Fancy's fine, "all-charming wand.”
Almost I expect to see a lightsome band

Come stealing through the hazel boughs, that cross
My path, or half asleep on bank of moss,
Some Satyr, with stretched arm and clenched hand.
It is a place all beauty. There, half hid
By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run
The river waters swift to meet the sun;

And in the distance, in its boiling might, The fatal fall is seen, the thundering STRID;And over all, the morning blue and bright!

TO THE MEMORY OF HOWARD,

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

WHY, when the souls we loved are fled,
Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed
In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,
In winter's blighting hours,

To spread a leaf, for ever green,-
Ray of the life that once hath been!

It is that we would thence create
Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date
Eternally to last.

It is, to hallow-whilst regret
Is busy with their actions yet-
The sweetnesses they cast;

To sanctify upon the earth

The glory of departed worth.

Such, and so fair, in day's decline

The hues which Nature gives; Yet-yet-though suns have ceased to shine, Her fair creation lives:

With loved remembrances to fill

The mind, and tender grief instil,

Dim radiance still survives;

And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.

Else, why when rifled stands the tower,
The column overthrown,
And, record of man's pride or power,
Crumbles the storying stone;

Why does she give her ivy-vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,
If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,

To glory's shade an ampler span!

Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,

Of beauty in repose:

Though all thy oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,
Whilst there one wild-flower blows

To claim a fond-regretful sigh,
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.

Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres

Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,
Thy diadems and thrones!

Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!
And still Pelides owns,

By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph-a grassy sod!

They were the mighty of the world,—
The demigods of earth;

Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,

And gave the battle birth;

They lived to trample on mankind,

And in their ravage leave behind

The impress of their worth:

And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.

But thou, mild benefactor - thou,

To whom on earth were given

The sympathy for others' woe,

The charities of heaven;-
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm;—
To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!

They live not in the sepulchre

In which thy dust is hid,

Though there were kindlier hands to rear

Thy simple pyramid,

Than Egypt's mightiest could commandA duteous tribe, a peasant band

Who mourned the rites they didMourned that the cold turf should confine A spirit kind and pure as thine!

They are existent in the clime

Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,

Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,
And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,
The pestilent abode,

Are thy memorials in the skies,

The portals of thy paradise.

Thine was an empire o'er distress,
Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,
The friend of human kind!

Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,

In glory shall be shrined!

Whilst other NIELDS and CLARKSONS show

That still thy mantle rests below.