"Invader! stay thy hand,-
Those mighty flames are fanned

By the patriots of the land,
And their God!

"Dreamedst thou with patient grief

They would look on, to see The conqueror of their chief

Issue forth his proud decree,

To humble the city of their sires?
Rather, let ruin come!

Let each altar-hallowed dome,
Let each loved, and peaceful home
Feed its fires!

"Hark! the gathering flames roar round

Like the ocean's troubled bed!

With a fiery shower, the ground
And the stifling air are red ;—

Blazing fragments fall fast on the tower,

Where the stores of ordnance lie

Prompt for death."

"Invader! fly :

"Tis a nation's rallying cry

Rules the hour!

"The sulphurous smoke pours down To mock the conqueror's flight

Flames gather like a crown

Round the Kremlin's sacred height:

Invader! thy minions shall find

That before the blazing war
Of yon flames, that shed afar
Their glorious light—thy star
Hath declined!

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say;
Mere modish love, perhaps it may :
For any tool of any kind

Can separate what ne'er was joined.
The knife that cuts our love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of merit!

To level you with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The self-same blade from me must sever,
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever;
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you,
A summer-and a short one too!
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours, without you, seem like years.
Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
Believe this knife will chip the moon)
Accept my present undeterred,
And leave their proverbs to be heard.
If in a kiss-delicious treat!—
Your lips acknowledge its receipt;
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only cut and come again.

THE OLD MAN'S REVERIE.

SOOTHED by the self-same ditty, see
The infant and the sire;
That smiling on the nurse's knee,
This weeping by the fire;

Where unobserved he finds a joy
To list its plaintive tone,
And silently his thoughts employ
On sorrows all his own.

At once it comes, by memory's power,
The loved habitual theme,

Reserved for twilight's darkling hour,
A voluntary dream!

And as with thoughts of former years
His weakly eyes o'erflow,
None wonder at an old man's tears,
Or seek his grief to know.

Think not he doats because he weeps;

Conclusion, ah! how wrong! Reason with grief joint empire keeps, Indissolubly strong;

And oft in age a helpless pride

With jealous weakness pines,

(To second infancy allied)

And every woe refines.

He ponders on his infant years,
When first his race began,
And, oh! how wonderful appears
The destiny of man!

T

How swift those lovely hours were past,

In darkness closed how soon! As if a winter's night o'ercast The brightest summer's noon.

His withered hand he holds to view,
With nerves once firmly strung,
And scarcely can believe it true
That ever he was young.

And as he thinks o'er all his ills,
Disease, neglect, and scorn,
Strange pity of himself he feels,
Thus aged and forlorn.

SONG..

BY MISS MITFORD.

SWEET is the balmy evening hour,

And mild the glow-worm's light, And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower With pearly dew-drops bright.

I love to loiter on the hill,

And catch each trembling ray;-
Fair as they are, they mind me still
Of fairer things than they.

What is the breath of closing flowers

But Feeling's gentlest sigh?

What are the dew-drops' crystal showers
But tears from Pity's eye?

What are the glow-worms by the rill

But Fancy's flashes gay?

I love them, for they mind me still

Of one more dear than they.

THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER.

BESIDE the parson's bower of yew,
Why strays a troubled sprite,
That peaks and pines, and dimly shines
Through the curtains of the night?

Why steals along the pond of toads
A gliding fire so blue,

That lights a spot where grows no grass,
Where falls no rain nor dew?

The vicar's daughter once was good,
And gentle as the dove,

And young and fair,-and many came
To win the damsel's love.

High o'er the hamlet, from the hill,
Beyond the winding stream,
The windows of a stately house

In the sheen of evening gleam:

There dwelt, 'mid riot, rout, and roar,
A lord so frank and free,
And oft with inward joy of heart,
The maid beheld his glee,

Whether he met the dawning day,
In hunting trim so fine,
Or tapers, sparkling from his hall,
Beshone the midnight wine.

He sent the maid his picture, girt
With diamond, pearl, and gold;
And a silken scroll, with perfumes sweet,
This gentle message told: