He must be long-tongued, with a witness,
Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion,
It sorts with universal fitness
To make yon clear, pellucid ocean,
That holds not one polluted drop,
Bear on its breast a blacksmith's shop!
Philosophers may talk of science,
And mechanicians of utility,-
In such I have but faint reliance:
To admire thee passeth my ability;
My taste is left at double distance,
At the first sea-quake of thy pistons.
It may be orthodox, and wise,
And catholic, and transcendental,
To the useful still to sacrifice,
Without a sigh, the ornamental;
But be it granted me, at least,
That I may never be the priest !
THERE is a blest voice in the Sabbath air,
Of souls rejoicing on their Maker's day,
And my dark spirit, on her mortal way,
In holy thought a moment hovers there;
And well forgets this vain earth's gloom and glare,
Her shews of transient date, and guards, and play,
Beating her prison-house and bonds of clay,
She strives to mingle with the good and fair.
O, earthless visions! dear to my sad soul,
Pour your rich beams with more celestial fire,
And chase these shades of doubt and vain desire,
That o'er my spirit thus their darkness roll;
And lead me, pure in heart, the path to God—
And I will drink the cup, and kiss the rod.
THE INCONSTANT'S APOLOGY.
BY THE LATE M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.
LOVE, I've loved you passing well,
Loved you long, and loved sincerely;
How I loved no tongue can tell,
"T was so truly, 't was so dearly;
But
my
fond delirium o'er,
Love, adieu;- we'll meet no more!
When I owned your beauty's sway,
All my vows were gospel-true, love;
That I'm changed, no doubt, you
'll say,
And, believe me, so are you, love;
Bloom departing, youth removed,
You're no more the love I loved!
Can I still the casket prize,
When the gem by Time is plundered? Can the stalk delight mine eyes,
Whence the rose for aye is sundered?
These possess no charms for me,
And, alas! are types of thee!
Parting lip and melting eye,
Teeth of pearl, and cheeks of roses,
Limbs that might with Paphia's vie,
Bosom where delight reposes;
These the love I love must shew;
Say, can you, love? No, love, no!
Now in Aura's blooming form,
Charms once yours mine eyes discover;
Since my soul they still can warm,
Wherefore call me faithless lover?
What you were, and she is now,
Still obtains my fervent vow.
Still my heart remains the same;
Still it doats on youth and beauty;
Still (whate'er their owner's name)
"T is to them I pay my duty;
And where'er their charms I see,
Still their charms have charms for me.
Chide no more then; for I vow,
If my heart adores a new love,
"Tis because she gives me now
Joys like those I shared with you, love!
Loving her, I still love you,
Hark! she calls me!-Love, adieu!
It was a shrine, a sunny shrine,
On it the statue stood of Love;
Thrice beautiful, as morning's dream
Had brought the image from above.
There many an hour would Beauty kneel,
Adoring at the lovely shrine
Haunting the statue with one prayer—
"Would thou hadst life! would thou wert mine!"
Wearied, at length, all-pitying heaven
No more the maiden's prayer denied;
Life darkened in the statue's eye,
And warmed the veins, life's crimson tide;
Breath, mortal breath, was on the lip,
And Beauty caught it to her breast;
Alas! the shape had changed to Grief-
Love ever does when once possessed!
Literary Gazette.
A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH GALLERY, BY E. D. LEAHY.
It was a stream in Thessaly; the banks
Were solitary, for the cypress trees
Closed o'er the waters; yet at times the wind
Threw back the branches, and then a sunbeam
Flung down a golden gift upon the wave,
And shewed its treasures; for the pebbles shone
Like pearls and purple gems, fit emblems they
For the delights that hope holds up to youth,
False in their glittering, and when they lose
The sparkle of the water and the sun,
They are found valueless. It is not thus
With pleasures, when the freshness and the gloss
That young life threw o'er them has dried away!
One only flower grew in that lonely place,
The lily, covered with its shadowy leaves,
Even as some Eastern beauty with her veil;
And like the favourite urns of spring, its bells
Held odours that the zephyrs dared not steal.
And by the river was a maiden leant,
With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light
Seemed as born of deep thought, which had gone through
Full many a stage of human wretchedness,——
Had known the anxious misery of love,—
The sickness of the hope which pines and dies
From many disappointments, and the waste
Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall;-
But more, as knowledge grew more from report,
Than its own sad experience; for she loved
The shelter of the quiet mountain valley,
The shadow of the scented myrtle grove,
And, more than all, the solitary bend,
Hidden by cypresses, of her own river.—
They called the nymph-RETIREMENT.
Literary Souvenir.
WHOE'ER has been at Coventry, must know (Unless he 's quite devoid of curiosity), That once a year it has a sort of show,
Conducted with much splendour and pomposity. I'll just describe it, if I cann-but no,
It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett; I
Am a vile jester,-though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.
Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,
Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore;
I often grieve to think that they 're past by,
As you must-
t—on a rainy after-four:
Though now its fairly quashed, you wont deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore;
It spoiled our cricket, which we 're all so proud on,
Nor let us beat the Kingsmen- as we've now done.
Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,
When gently warbled by the lips he loves; 'Tis sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes); But sweeter far, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves, The gleam of happy faces o'er them castMoments of triumph not to be surpast!
Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,
Oh! doubts and fears, and hopes of Eton, all
Ye are departed! but a lingering feeling
Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall. My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling
I feel my cheek flush-hear my inkstand fall;
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