THE BANKS OF THE ESK.

BY J. RICHARDSON, ESQ.

THERE's hardly motion in the air,
To waft the floating gossamer;
Along the placid azure sky,

The clouds in fleecy fragments lie,
Like the thin veil o'er beauty's face,
Conferring more endearing grace.
Again I gaze upon thy stream,

Loved scene of many a youthful dream,
Where rosy Hope, with syren tongue,
Carolled her fond alluring song,
And led my raptured soul along.—
Why is thy murmur to my ear,
So full of sorrow, yet so dear!
Why does the rustling of thy woods,
The roll of thy autumnal floods,
Re-echoed by a hollow moan,
Sounds so peculiarly thine own,
Awake in strange alternate measure,

Thoughts of woe, and thoughts of pleasure?

"Tis, that, once more, thy scenes can give

Times that in memory hardly live,

And youth again, with angel smile,
A fleeting moment can beguile;
And bid, as in the wizard's glass,
His shadowy visions gleam, and pass,
Till quick returns the present doom,
Involving all in double gloom.
English Minstrelsy.

THINGS TO COME.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

THERE are murmurs on the deep,

There are thunders on the heaven; Though the ocean billows sleep,

Though no cloud the sign has given; Earth that sudden storm shall feel, "Tis a storm of man and steel.

Tribes are in their forests now,
Idly hunting ounce and deer;
Tribes are crouching in their snow
O'er their wild and wintry cheer,
Doomed to swell that tempest's roar,
Where the torrent-rain is gore.

War of old has swept the world,
Guilt has shaken strength and pride;
But the thunders, feebly hurled,
Quivered o'er the spot, and died;
When the vengeance next shall fall,
Woe to each, and woe to all.

Man hath shed Man's blood for toys, Love and hatred, fame and gold; Now, a mightier wrath destroys; Earth in cureless crime grows old;

Past destruction shall be tame

To the rushing of that flame.

When the clouds of Vengeance break,
Folly shall be on the wise,
Frenzy shall be on the weak,

Nation against nation rise,

And the worse than Pagan sword

In Religion's breast be gored.

Then the Martyrs' solemn cry,
That a thousand years has rung,
Where their robes of crimson lie

Round the Golden Altar' flung, Shall be heard, and from the 'throne' The trumpet of the 'Judgment' blown.

"Woe to Earth, the mighty, woe!'

Yet shall Earth her conscience lull, Till above the brim shall flow

The draught of gall.-The cup is full. Yet a moment!-Comes the ire,— Famine, bloodshed, flood, and fire.

First shall fall a Mighty one!

Ancient crime had crowned his brow, Dark Ambition raised his throne

Truth his victim and his foe.

Earth shall joy in all her fear
O'er the great Idolater.

Then shall rush abroad the blaze
Sweeping Heathen zone by zone;
Afric's tribe the spear shall raise,
Shivering India's pagod throne:
China hear her Idol's knell
In the Russian's cannon-peal.

On the Turk shall fall the blow From the Grecian's daggered hand! Blood like winter-showers shall flow, Till he treads the Syrian land! Then shall final vengeance shine, And all be sealed in Palestine ! Literary Gazette.

NIGHT.

BY E. ELLIOTT, ESQ.

NIGHT! thou art silent; thou art beautiful;
Thou art majestic; and thy brightest moon
Rides high in heaven, while on the stream below,
Her image, glimmering as the waters glide,
Floats at the feet of Boulten. There no more
The green graves of the pestilence are seen;
O'er them the plough hath passed, and harvests wave
Where haste and horror flung the infectious corpse.
Grey Wharncliffe's rocks remain, still to out-live
Countless editions of the Autumn leaf.

But where are now their terrors? Striga's form,
Of largest beauty, wanders here no more;
No more her deep and mellow voice awakes
The echoes of the forest; and a tale

Of fear and wonder, serves but to constrain,
Around the fire of some far moorland farm,
The speechless circle, while the importunate storm,
O'er the bowed roof, growls with a demon's voice.
The poacher whistles in the Dragon's den ;'
Nor fiend, nor witch fears he. With felon foot
He haunts the wizard wave, and makes the rock,
Where spirits walk, his solitary seat;

The' unsleeping gale moves his dark curls; the moon
Looks on his wild face; at his feet, his dog
Watches his eye; and while no sound is heard,
Save of the hooming Don, or whirling leaf,

Or rustling fern, he listens silently,

But not in fear. At once, he bounds away;

And the snared hare shrieks, quivers, and is still. Sheffield Iris.

BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ.

O DAUGHTER dear, my darling child,
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,

Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,

And wreathed with Spring my wintry age !— Through thee a second prospect opes

Of life, when but to live is glee,

And jocund joys, and youthful hopes,

Come thronging to my heart through thee.

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers

Where love and youth their transports gave; While forward still thou strewest flowers,

And bid'st me live beyond the grave;
For still my blood in thee shall flow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line,

Thy face, my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.

Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute,
This heart is dust these eyes are closed,
And thou art singing to thy lute

Some stanza by thy Sire composed,
To friends around thou may'st impart

A thought of him who wrote the lays, And from the grave my form shall start, Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.

Then to their memories will throng

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth;

The cheerful page, the lively song,

The woodland walk, or festive mirth; Then may they heave the pensive sigh, That friendship seeks not to controul, And from the fixed and thoughtful eye, The half unconscious tears may roll ;-