And thus it is with links of destiny:
Clay fastens on with gold-and none may tell
What the chain's next unravelling will be.
Alas, the mockeries in which fate delights!
Alas, for time!-still more, alas, for change!

L. E. L.

THE MOON.

THE moon is sailing o'er the sky,
But lonely all, as if she pined
For somewhat of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined:

Earth is her mirror, and the stars
Are as the court around her throne;
She is a beauty and a queen;

But what of this? she is alone.

Where are those who may share with thee
Thy glorious royalty on high?
I cannot choose but pity thee,
Thou lovely orphan of the sky.

I'd rather be the meanest flower
That grows, my mother earth, on thee,
So there were others of my kin,

To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me.

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death;
But with these better could I bear,

Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere,
And be a solitary there.

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L

BY THE REV. J. WOLFE.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary ! thou art dead !

If thou would'st stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own, But there I lay thee in thy grave— And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

WOMAN.

BY THE REV. E. BARNARD.

OH thou, by heaven ordained to be
Arbitress of man's destiny!

From thy sweet lip one tender sigh,
One glance from thine approving eye,
Can raise or bend him at thy will
To virtue's noblest flight, or worst extremes of ill.

Be angel-minded, and despise

Thy sex's little vanities;

And let not Passion's lawless tide

Thy better purpose sweep aside :

For woe awaits the evil hour,

That lends to man's annoy thy heaven-entrusted power.

Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart

From every gross unholy part:

Thine, in domestic solitude,

To win him to be wise and good:

His pattern, friend, and guide to be—
To give him back the heaven he forfeited for thee!

COMPARISON:

THOSE withered leaves along the cold ground spread,
Did once the sweetest of all flowers compose;
And though full many a sun hath seen them shed,
They still are odorous as the living rose.
So breathes the memory of departed worth,

When years have mourned it in the silent tomb;
There is a fragrance in the holy earth

Where virtue sleeps, that time cannot consume. The good man dies, but with his parting breath Bequeaths the world a sweet that knows no death.

BY MISS BENGER.

THOU Com'st, fair bark, in gallant pride,
Thy snow-white sails exulting spread ;
Nor I the graceful triumph chide,
For silent are the tears I shed.

Erewhile, when thou wert distant far,
Wandering on ocean's pathless waste,
I hailed thee as my pilot star,

By thee my devious course was traced.

To thee, as to a hallowed shrine,

My sighs, my prayers were all addressed; Thy pride, thy honour seemed but mine, And in thy safety was my rest.

But now, though trophies deck thy brow,
A mournful wreck alone I see;
For he who warmed each ardent vow,
No more a welcome asks of me.

He should have lived!-for Fortune owed
The kind redress, withheld too long,
Whilst he life's dark and dreary road

Had still beguiled with Hope's sweet song.

He should have lived!-in suffering schooled, But ne'er with fancied wrongs oppressed; For nature still o'er sorrow ruled,

And peace his guileless soul possessed.

Unskilled in caution's frigid lore,

He scorned suspicion's gloomy sway; Deceived, he trusted as before,

And dreams illumed each passing day.

And still in Albion's happy isle,

His little fairy home was placed;
Domestic love, affection's smile,
Were all the joys he sighed to taste.

How blest, to strive with toil no more,
To live for social cares alone,

To soothe the ills that others bore,

As none had ever soothed his own!

How fair the scene by fancy cast,

Rich with affection's balmy breath, Ah dream! the loveliest, as the last, That gilded the dark hour of death.

Even on his wandering soul it smiled, When flitting shades around him pressed, A transient gleam of joy beguiled

His pangs-one moment he was blessed.

He saw the partner of his days,

Hailed each loved friend with ancient claim, And with a tender, lingering gaze, Responded to the father's name.

And then he would a blessing breathe,
A pledge of Christian faith impart,
And with a dower of love bequeath,
The latest counsels of his heart.

But then he saw the phantoms fade,
He gazed on strangers, rude and cold;
His last fond look was hope betrayed,
His parting sigh, a wish untold.