"I believe I am tired a little," says Shill;

Heigh ho! Miss Sally!

“ We have ridden enough, and the wind's growing chill; So we'll turn, if you please, at the top of the hill;

Nor rowly, powly, canter home airy;

But quietly saunter with Cleary."

Smack off went a gun: Shill caught by the mane ;
Heigh ho! Miss Sally!

But stout, in a moment, she righted again;

Then on to the hall-door kept pressing amain;
And rowly, powly, scampering airy,

Banged up, with the

* and Cleary.

CATHERINE TRAIL. *

By the side of a stream, a sad willow was stooping;
And kissed its pale shadow, that rose from below:
Beside the sad willow, a damsel hung drooping;

Oh! wan was her cheek! and her heart full of woe!

"From playful to severe."

See the promise, or warning, given in the motto.

Perhaps this is no unfit place for observing, that the verses, contained in this second part, so far appertain to the head under which we have placed them, that though they cannot be called "philosophical transactions," or "literary transactions," of Neapolis, yet even in the case of such as are not descriptive of its scenery, their composition was the fruit and result of that rural otium, and of those jucunda oblivia, which the seclusion of Neapolis supplied.

a By entitling this second part Neapolisiana.

Her's is not the grief, that finds solace in weeping;
Nor sigh can disperse it; or trickle allay :

Scarcely wretched are those, who their anguish can steep in
A tear-flood, that swells, but to bear it away.

Respect the death-pang of a heart that is breaking:

In toiling to soothe, you but torture: oh, spare! While the tempest of Fate all its fury is wreaking,

What port has the victim? Oh what, but Despair?

To what you would avert, her last hope is aspiring;

And 'tis mortal, the wound that has entered her soul: The fate that has crushed, lo, has left her expiring; And dizzy she reels, but to sink at the goal.

Then sting not, with comfort, to wild desperation,
One exiled from peace, and to wretchedness hurled;
But let woe, softly blending with meek resignation,
Waft her soul to a better, and happier world.

To earth be her hopelessness limited solely;

While heaven-ward her spirit points, soaring on care; And Piety pierces, with glimpse warm and holy,

The gloom of the grave, and the chill of Despair.

TOUT EN NOIR;

A BALLAD.*

Pale Henry sat musing, the day was declining,
Its blush in the West dimly fading away;

Sigh'd the breeze,-fell a sky-tear,-for Nature, repining,
Thus pensively mourn'd the warm lustre of Day.

“Dazzling Orb, at your rise, all is kindling in glory;
The throne that you sit on, is purple and gold;
Chill Night, and her shadows, fly scattered before you;
While Cherubim Hopes every pinion unfold.

"Even such is the pomp of Life's innocent morning;
Glad visions of Fancy impurple it round:
With splendours Elysian our pathways adorning ;
And prospects of Happiness-not to be found.

"Care and Sorrow their miseries heavily muster,
Life's dawn to o'ercast, and its promise to mar;
Tears wither its bloom, and storms blemish its lustre,
While glimpses of Death are seen scowling afar.

66

Wrapp'd in mantle of darkness, each hour proceeding, In mid day of fog do they terminate soon?

What a life prime is this! but at best, they must lead in The bustle, and fervour, and fever of noon.

* Spanish Air 'A temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted.

"For best portion of life, its mild evening is taken;
When Time and calm Reason its fever assuage:
But too oft it is desolate, friendless, forsaken;
Or passions of Youth heave the bosom of Age.

"Then hectics of twilight bloom sicklily o'er us;

Soon fading in paleness,-that deepens to gloom; While all the gay fabricks, that glitter'd before us, Are shrunk to the narrow dark still of the tomb.

"How I long, chilly refuge, to reach your asylum,
And life, with its hopes, and its perfidy, brave!
False friends, late detected, (let Conscience revile 'em,)
Who but crawl-to devour; like the worms of the grave.

"Their mangling we feel not; so deep is our slumber; And in mercy they waited, until we had swoon'd: But the vermin of life, who these vermin outnumber,

Meet the throb of your heart,-with a sneer, and a wound."

While Henry was muttering, Night was approaching,
And turning the welkin to sable, from gray;
Its gloom on the glimmer of twilight encroaching,
And quenching the last feeble glimpses of Day.

Through its shades see the Murmurer slowly retiring.
To his couch, and its trances oblivious, he goes;
While to nought, but mere respite from anguish, aspiring,

Mark how deep was that moan, as he sunk to repose!

To-morrow the Day-Star will rise in his glory,

To restore light and life, hope and gladness, to men;
But lifeless the form is,-extended before you;
Poor Henry will never awaken again.

LINES ON A LABURNUM, WITHERED BY THE SUN.*

Just on the vista-walk, you'll find

A tree, 'tis of laburnum kind,
A rustic seat before;

And many a golden blossom gay

Was wont to deck its emerald spray,
In seasons heretofore!

And we had hoped to see, this Spring
As many golden clusters bring,

To deck our favourite tree :

But ere its flowerets had unrolled

Their petals, from their tender fold,
Their beauties blighted see!

*Not written by the author of this collection; nor by the writer of "A True Story," & cet.