By thy softly blushing cheek, By those lips that more than speak, Wreathe for ay thy snowy arms, From the depths of that blue heaven, Thou art not-canst not be Nell Gwyn! PORTRAIT OF SAPPHO. HER head was bending down As if in weariness, and near, But unworn, was a laurel crown. She was not beautiful, if bloom L. È. L. And smiles form beauty; for, like death, Was parch'd, as fever were its breath. Yet leaving them no tears to shed,- She sat beneath a cypress tree, She was a long last farewell taking ;- SONG. Mrs. Opie. I ONCE rejoiced, sweet evening gale, It waves the grass o'er Henry's grave! Ah! setting sun! how changed I seem ! Sweet evening gale! howe'er I seem, THE ROSES. Anonymous. Two roses, just cull'd, and yet glistening with dew, Were twined with the breast-knot and ribband of blue, The one, like the bosom it peer'd from, was white, The other, in hue was the same As the cheek of the fair, when the gossip, in spite, I gazed on the roses, but quickly bethought But still as the fair one my truant eye caught, To the flowers, as a shield, it withdrew. But Anna, half frowning, her blushing cheek fann'd, As the sensitive plant shuns the touch of the hand, Yet quickly relenting, she said, looking kind, So take them-the roses are yours. Scarce pausing to thank her, I snatch'd them in haste, I could number each blossom her breath had embraced, You frown'd, lovely maid, when I dared to avow And I fear, while you live, and are peerless as now, But would you reform the offender you chide, The earth holds no treasure he prizes beside, And he never would covet again! FARE THEE WELL. FARE thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee, Which thou ne'er canst know again : Byron. Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Though the world for this commend thee— Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, O, yet, thyself deceive not; Still thine own its life retain eth Still must mine, though bleeding, beat And the undying thought which paineth, Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow And when thou wouldst solace gather,When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say, "Father!" Though his care she must forego? |