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FORGET THEE? NO, NEVER!

By the hour of our parting-thus sweetly delayed,—
By truth firmly tried-and by trust unbetrayed,—
I will not forget thee!-Till life's latest ray

In the dark night of death shall have melted away;
'Mid ambition-fame-fortune-and power,—and glad-

ness,

Pain, and peril

and hate and contention — and

sadness;

Though changes the darkest and brightest betide,Thy friendship shall soothe me, thy counsels shall guide, And thy memory at once be my solace and pride!

LINES,

WRITTEN IN THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD, AN ARABIAN TALE, BY THE REV. G. CROLY.

I.

Ir is a sunny vision—a deep dream—
Too full of beauty for the heart to dwell,
Unpained, upon the dazzling rays that stream
Around the Bard's creations! Music's swell
Voluptuous on the ear;-the camel-bell,
Borne softly on the distance;-banners bright,
Instinct with gems;—that angel ere he fell,
And starry Eblis,-in their mingled might,
Deluge each weary pulse with too intense delight.

II.

We turn away with dim, delirious sense

From that so fervid blaze; and seek repose

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ON THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD.

From Eastern splendour and magnificence,
From gorgeous palaces, and clouds of rose,
Sceptres and thrones, and diamond-crested brows,-
Pluming our spirits' pinions at the page,
Where sweet Floranthe warbles forth her woes

In strains, of power each turbulent thought to 'suage, And bid the Passions cease their fierce, wild war, to wage!

III.

Surpassing Lyrist! from thy powerful hand,
The thunders and keen lightnings of the Muse
Speed forth in glorious might!-Thou canst com-

mand

The noon-tide burst of poesy;-yet infuse
Its twilight calms and bloom-refreshing dews
Amid thy deep conceptions; and canst braid
Wreaths, rich and bright, with variegated hues,
As those on an Arabian Heaven displayed,

Ere day's last rainbow-beams have vanished into shade!

A FAREWELL.

Have we not loved, as none have ever loved,
And must we part, as none have ever parted?

I.

YES, I will join the world again,

And mingle with the crowd;

MATURIN.

And though my mirth may be but pain, My laughter, wilderment of brain,

At least it shall be loud!

II.

'Tis true, to bend before the shrine

Of heartless revelry,

Is slavery to a soul like mine;

Yet better thus in chains to pine,

Than ever crouch to thee !

Ay, better far to steep the soul

In pleasure's sparkling tide; Bid joy's unholy sounds controul The maddening thoughts that o'er it roll, Than wither 'neath thy pride.

IV.

Yet I have loved thee-ah, how well!
But words are wild and weak;
The depth of that pervading spell,
I dare not trust my tongue to tell,-
And hearts may never speak!

V.

The stubborn pride, none else might rein,

Hath stooped to love and thee; But, as the pine upon the plain, Bent by the blast, springs up again, So shall it fare with me.