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Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!

But his were deeds unchronicled; his tomb
No patriot wreathes adorn, to cheer his doom ;
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquests for his country won;
And he, whose sculptured form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas—he dies without a name!

Haply to grace some Cæsar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling champion died;
When Rome, degenerate Rome, for barbarous shows
Bartered her virtue, glory, and repose;
Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
For pomp

of death, and theatres of blood !

NEWSTEAD WOODS.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

How pleasantly the sun, this summer day,
Shines through the covert of these leafy woods,
Where quiet, like a gentle spirit, broods
Unstartled, save by the continuous lay
Of birds, the stirring west-wind, and the play
Of a small pebbly stream. The columbine
Shines in its dark blue lustre, and the twine
Of rose and honeysuckle bowers the way.
Long of these arching trees, this softened sky,
My memory's tablet will a trace retain.
How ’mong the sylvan knolls a bard might lie,
And cast aside the world's corroding chain-
A monarch in the world of poetry,
Endenizened in fancy's free domain !

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A WOMAN'S FAREWELL.

The waves are all at rest on yon river's shining breast,

And in evening's sweet light sleep the towers of Thoulouse ; The bright-haired god of day ere long will pass away,

And twilight be shedding her shadows and dews.

'T is now that silent hour when love hath deepest power

To stir the soft heart with its dreams of delight;When even the sickening thrill of hope delayed still,

And the sunbeams of feeling grow golden and bright.

How can I then but choose at such an hour to muse

With fondest regret on the days that have flown; For all seems wildly changed since hand in hand we ranged

By the green, winding banks of the gleaming Garonne !

What darkly-chequered years, what passionate hopes and fears,

Have solaced and seared our young bosoms since then; What clouds of care and blight, what visions of delight,

Have chilled them and thrilled them again and again!

Yet believe me, love, in this,—though in moments of bliss

Every pulse of thy heart found a response in mine; When the storm upon us came, I may merit thy blame,

But so sweet was our sadness I could not repine.

Forgive me if I deemed Fate kinder than she seemed,

If I smiled at the world and its fiercest alarms; If I inly blest the grief that bade thee seek relief

In the cherishing shelter and pale of my arms.

Was loss of wealth severe, when a fond one was near

To soothe thee and make thee a Croesus in love? Or vexations all must bear, worth a thought or a care Which a kiss -- and thou 'st owned it- a kiss could remove?

What are life's petty ills, its hectics or its chills,

Do they trench on affection, or wither its flowers ! No: in hearts with feeling warm, love's the bow of the storm,

Which grows deeper and brighter the faster it showers.

Though keen and bitter woes have troubled our repose,

There's a wilder one, dearest, in store for us yet : Oh, what a thrill intense drinks up each vital sense,

When I turn to the bodings I fain would forget!

Why did we ever part? Sorrow had not a dart

In her quiver I could not have smiled at beside : Even the fiat of my doom, though it spake of the tomb,

I could calmly have bowed to with thee by my side.

Some have said that passion's storm will oft thy soul deform,

But to me thou hast ever been gentle and calm: Some have said hate oft hath wrung bitter accents from thy tongue,

But to me have thy words been as music and balm.

Let them rail, let them rail! those who credit their tale

Cannot know thee so deeply and dearly as I. 'Then our foes we 'll forgive, since their efforts to rive

Affection's firm chain, hath drawn closer the tie.

Thus will it ever be, on the world's troubled sea,

When two fond ones are cleaving in concert their way, Though clouds sometimes may hide them, and tempests divide,

They 'll be nearer than e'er when the rack drives away!

In life's unclouded spring, as on Pleasure's light wing,

'Mid its bowers of enchantment we carelessly roved; With feelings, hopes, and fears, far too deep for our years,

In that sun-burst of gladness we met and we loved !

Thou wert then at that age when the stormy passions rage

More fiercely the wilder earth's wise ones reprove; Pride and gentleness combined, in thy young heart were shrined,

The softness and fire of the eagle and dove!

'Though Fortune was unkind, to thy merits ever blind,

Still thy spirit could unstooping her malice endure : And what though thou wert thrown on this wide world alone,

Did I love thee less for being friendless and poor?

In the casket of thy soul, beyond Fortune's control,

There were gems of more value than gauds of this earth ; And for rank thou could'st vie with the highest of the high,

For thy heart sure was princely, whate'er was thy birth.

Feelings lofty and refined, golden gifts of the mind,

Were the rank and the riches most precious to me; And, but that words are weak, and the heart may not speak,

I would tell what a treasure I met with in thee.

What is wealth, what is wealth, could it purchase me health ?

Or procure for us moments more blissful than those We together oft have past, whenever fate's chilling blast

Could not ruffle our own little world of repose ?

Surely not, surely not! Life's light ills were forgot;

Then protected by thee, on thy bosom I hung; And though tempests raged above, they were harmless to love,

For the wilder the ruin, the closer we clung!

But the sun has looked his last, and the day is fading fast,

And night's shades are overwhelming my heart and my song; Fare thee well !- a long farewell !— I have broken the spell

Which has bound me to earth and its witcheries so long!

THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

BY L. E. L.

Ay, moralize on Love, and deem
Its life but as an April gleam, -
A thing of sunshine and of showers,
Of dying leaves and falling flowers.
Who would not bear the darkest sphere
That such a rainbow comes to cheer?
Ay, turn and wail above the tomb,
Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom ;
And deem it quite enough to say,—
Thus Beauty, and thus Love decay.
But must I look upon this spot
With feelings thy cold heart has not;
Those gentle thoughts that consecrate,
Even while they weep, the Lover's fate.
I thought upon the star-lit hour,
When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower,
And blushed and smiled the tale to hear,
Poured from her dark-eyed cavalier ;
And yet, I too must moralize,
Albeit with gentler sympathies,
Of all my own fond heart can tell
Of love's despair, and love's farewell, -
Its many

miseries ;-its tears
Like lava, not like dew;—its fears,
That make hope painful;— then its trust,
So often trampled in the dust;-
Neglected, blighted, and betrayed,
A sorrow and a mockery made!
Then change and adverse fortune, all
That binds and keeps sweet Love in thrall.
Oh, surely, surely, it were best
To be just for one moment blessed;
Just gaze upon one worshipped eye,

Just know yourself beloved, and die !
Literary Souvenir.

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