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THE LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE.·

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

My soul is calm, my bosom bright,
With sunshine such as ne'er till now
Rose to chase off the dreary night,

That gathered round my moody brow;
O long-loved tears! O cherished grief!
O, dear frequented glooms that wore
So sweet a guise! your wild relief
I need no more!

No tuneful fiction of the brain

Wert thou to me, pale-eyed Despair!
So long I bent beneath thy chain,

Its weight at length seemed light to bear.
But now thine adamantine mace

Is broke, thy drear dominion o'er;
Good bye! thy scorn of female grace
I need no more!

Oft, very oft, when Memory stung
My heart to agony, I flew

To fiction's tales, and o'er them hung,

Till Fancy half believed them true;
But Love now lends me sweeter themes
And thoughts by far, whereon to pore;
Good-bye, Romance, thy charmed dreams
I need no more!

Sweet summer flowers! your cultured blooms
Have many an hour my cares beguiled,

Till, soothed by your divine perfumes,
I've kissed your rosy cheeks, and smiled;

But now with Hope my bosom beats,
To win a flower, all flowers before,

Good-bye! your tributary sweets

I need no more!

And thou, my friend, from first to last,
Through good and ill, in weal and woe,
Brightener and soother of the past,

With all thy laurels round thee, go!
I've loved thee much; but now, my lyre,
What, if thy fascination 's o'er?
And what, if, late eclipsed, thy fire
I need no more?

Canst thou repine if dust devour

Thy strings, left motionless and mute, When, touched by hands of dearer power, My heart is grown the sweeter lute! Thou 'st won me fame-thou 'st won me praise; Take these my aspirations soar Loftier than this-thy trumpet lays I need no more!

Did e'er thy voice, when most it tried,
Win me one sigh-I say not tear,
From her I loved! Go to! the pride
Of song has cost thy master dear.
If praise, if fame's the only meed
Of all my love, of all thy lore,
Farewell! thy blandishments I need
No more, no more!

No! still, if still my lady's glance
Chide not the vision I pursue,
In such delighted chase, romance,
Flower, lute, and music, all adieu!
But come, young Joy, lead on the hour,
When love shall say, thy reign is o'er;
Good-bye, dear Hope, thy soothing power
I need no more!

ARRIA.

AN HISTORICAL SKETCH.

BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.

"It is not painful, Pætus."

HER form-it is not of the sky,
Nor yet her sex above;

Her eye-it is a woman's eye,

And bright with woman's love ;—
Nor look, nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman's quietness of thought:
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might!

Her lord is fettered by her side,

In soul and strength subdued;
Yet looks she on him with a pride
Fonder than when she viewed
His mailed form in the brightest hour
Of victory, applause, and power!
When Fortune beamed upon his brow,
She loved not as she loveth now.

They tore him from his home;—she rose
A midnight sea to brave;

She stood beside him when his foes
Were fiercer than the wave;

And now she is beside him here,

A prisoner in a dungeon drear,

Still calm as when before she strove;

Still strong in woman's strength—her love.

She loved as Roman matron should,
Her hero's spotless name;

She would have calmly seen his blood
Flow on the field of fame;

But could not bear to have him die,
The sport of each plebeian eye;

To see his stately neck bowed low,
Beneath the headsman's dastard blow.

She brought to him his own bright brand,
She bent a suppliant knee,

And bade him, by his own right hand,
Die, freeman 'mid the free.

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In vain ;-the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould :-
Then rose the wife and woman high,
And died-to teach him how to die!

It is not painful, Pætus :-Ay!
Such words could Arria say,
And view with an unaltered eye
Her life-blood ebb away.

Professor of a purer creed,

Nor scorn, nor yet condemn the deed,
Which proved-unaided from above-
The deep reality of love;

Ages, since then, have swept along,—
Arria is but a name;-

Yet still is woman's love as strong,-
Still woman's soul the same ;-
Still soothes the mother and the wife,
Her cherished ones, 'mid care and strife.
It is not painful, Pætus-still

Is love's word in the hour of ill.

A child is playing on the green,
With rosy cheek and radiant mien ;
But sorrow comes-the smile's departed,-
He weeps, as he were broken-hearted;
But see, ere yet his tears are dry,
Again his laugh thrills wild and high:
As lights and shades each other chase,
So pain and joy flit o'er his face;
And nought shall have the power to keep
His eyes, one moment, from their sleep;―
And such was I.

A youth sits with his burning glance
Turned upwards to heaven's blue expanse :
What is it o'er his pale cheek flushing?
What thought has set the life-blood gushing?
It is of many a deed sublime,

That he will do in future time,-
Of many a struggle to be past,
Repaid by deathless fame at last:

He thinks not of the moments gone,-
He lives in fiery hope alone;-

And such was I.

Sunken those eyes, and worn that brow,
Yet more of care, than years, they shew;
There's something in that cheek revealing
The bosom-wound, that knows no healing :
He lives, and will live on, and smile,
And thoughts he cannot lose, beguile;
He'll shun no duty-break no tie,
But his star's fallen from the sky.

Oh! pitying heaven, the wretch forgive,
That bears but wishes not to live;—

And such am I.

ZARACH.

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