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Around thee robes of snowy white,

With virgin taste are thrown;
And, at thy breast, a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown :—
Calmly thou gazest-like the moon
Upon the leafy woods of June,

The auburn hair is braided soft
Above thy snowy brow :-
Why dost thou gaze on me so oft!
I cannot follow now!

It were a crime, a double death,
To follow by forbidden path.

But let me press that hand again,
I oft have pressed in love,
When sauntering thro' the grassy plain,

Or summer's evening grove;

Or pausing, as we marked afar,
The twinkling of the evening star.

It is a dream, and thou art gone;
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast-sorrowful-alone-
With sinking heart, I lie

To muse on days, when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be!

Oh! lonely is the lot of him,

Whose path is on the earth,

And when his thoughts are dark and dim,

Hears only vacant mirth;

A swallow left, when all his kind

Have crossed the seas, and winged the wind.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Henry Kirke White.

SWEET Scented flower! who'rt wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desart drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,

And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,

And throw across the desart gloom,

A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree:

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies:

Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

STANZAS.

I KNEW thee in thy cloudless day,
But dared not breathe my love to thee;
It wore my youthful form away,
And fill'd my heart with misery.
That love was hopeless, and I sought

To hide from all my soul's despair,
And die contented with the thought
That I had gazed on aught so fair!
A gloom was spread o'er me and mine,
For thee was nought but sunny weather,
And when I saw thy fortune shine,

I would not link our fates together.

When I have seen thee, gay at heart,

Thro' lighted halls with others rove, I've stood in some deserted part,

And gazed on thee in speechless love. And when I saw thy lovers press

Round thee, a fickle watch to keep;

I felt my utter loneliness,

And turn'd from them and thee to weep-
To weep, alas! o'er lost repose,

In anguish and unyielding sorrow,

To weep o'er wounds that would not close,

And hopes for which there seem'd no morrow.

But tempests came across the skies,
That shone on thee so bright before;
And then I hush'd my own vain sighs,
And lov'd thee in thy misery more.
I stole to thee when others fled,

And mingled woe brought mingled balm ;
Our tears were in communion shed,

And grief was mute, and sorrow calm. When joy has bound two hearts for years, A sudden storm those hearts may sever; But, oh! the love that springs in tears,

Through change and time endures for ever.

V.

HUMOROUS AND AMUSING PIECES.

MONSIEUR TONSON.

Taylor.

THERE liv'd, as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant Wag on town, yclep'd Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke ;

In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing.

To many a jovial Club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone-
Choice Spirit, grave Free-Mason, Buck and Blood,
Would crowd, his stories and bon-mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,
His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight,
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,
Careless how Prudence on the sport might frown;
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprung to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

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