By the bitter tears that dimm'd mine eye,
When these hands thy bier were dressing-
While amidst the cold, cold silence there,
I recall'd thy dying blessing!

By these I swear, though the gates of death
For a while our souls may sever,
I am thine-with proud and single heart,
That can beat for another-never!

When I meet with those that look like thee,
And gaze on their winning graces,
My mind but turns to the days gone by,
And THY form of light retraces ;-

They are not thee, nor shall their faint charms
Love's buried fires awaken;-

They are not thee, nor shall plighted faith
By novelty be shaken!

No-never shall my unspotted truth

To thee be stain'd or broken! I'll hold it fast till we meet again, As a rich and holy token

Of a love that looks to brighter worlds,
Through the clouds that fail to blind it-
Of a love that will shortly speed to thee,
From the bonds of flesh that bind it!

THE SONG OF GRIEF.

You bid me sing the song you love-
HOW CAN I sing, when blinding tears
Rush to mine eyes, and thoughts of grief
Mine inmost soul to sadness move?

I sing of love of parted love—

Of death, that nipp'd the buds of youth, And quench'd the pure and glowing fires Of early tenderness and truth.

I sing-and lo!—a bitter tear

Of deep remembrance gems your cheek;
I gaze and soon my sight grows dim,
My accents indistinct and weak.

Never again shall that sad song

Be heard by thee-my hand and voice
Shall never rouse one chord of pain,
But strive to bid thy soul rejoice.

I'll sing of hope-immortal hope,

That flits not with the fleeting breath;

But with an eagle's pinion soars

Above the storms of time and death.

Then if a smile—a placid smile,

Steal o'er thy cheek, be mine the task To keep the pleasing stranger thereNo higher office do I ask.

Anonymous

REPLY.

Ан, yes! again let that sad song

Be heard by me; thy hand and voice, With holiest spell, the chords of pain Can sweep then bid my soul rejoice.

That song awakens many a thought
Of days long past-for ever fled!
Of joys that, in the darksome tomb,'
Sleep with the memory of the dead.

Yet, friend beloved-heart honour'd-dear
As earth's best hope-thy magic strain,
Though it may agonize the breast,
Shall add no link to misery's chain.

For, oh! 'tis bliss to know that one
So kind, so good, so pure of heart,
Her sweetest sympathies can yield,
Her noblest energies impart.

Then, once again, let that sad song
Be heard by me; my grateful care
Shall bless thee in the earliest dawn,
Shall bless thee in its midnight prayer!

Harral.

REST, STRANGER, REST!

Bird.

REST, stranger, rest, the storm is o'er;

Tired with their rage the winds are sleeping; The tempest's howl is heard no more,

Nor cry of hapless seaman weeping.

Swift from the heaven the dark clouds fly,
The moon again illumes the sky,
Her beam is dancing on the shore;
Rest, stranger, rest—the storm is o'er.

For thee, perchance, hot tears are shed,
For thee, whom cruel fate doth sever
From all thou lovest, with joyless dread ;
Oh! they may deem thee lost for ever!
Yet, chace that mournful thought away,
And thou may'st see a brighter day :
Despair not, nor thy fate deplore;
Rest, stranger, rest-the storm is o'er.

Or does one loved till death bewail

Thy long-lost smile, with aching bosom,
And phrenzied eye, and cheek all pale,
Which once was fair as vernal blossom?
Oh! she may wake from sorrow's dream,
To hail her soul's departed beam;
Then tears of love will fall no more;
Rest, stranger, rest-the storm is o'er.

And thou hast 'scaped the hideous wave!
Delightful thought! dispelling sadness:

No more thou dread'st the cold sea-grave,

And I may tune my harp to gladness.
Light gliding o'er the level main,
The kyule* spreads her sail again;
No lightning glares, nor billows roar ;
Rest, stranger, rest-the storm is o'er.

WAR SONG.

Vale of Slaughden.

Byron.

TAMBOURGI! Tambourgi! † thy 'larum afar
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war;
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note,
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote!

Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote,

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock,
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock.

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live?

Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego?
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race;

For a time they abandon the cave and the chace :

The smaller vessels of the Anglo-Saxons were called kyules. + Drummer.