By thy softly blushing cheek,

By those lips that more than speak,
By that stately, swan-like neck,
Glossy white without a speck,
By thy slender fingers fair,
Modest mien and graceful air,
'Twas a burning shame and sin
Sweet, to christen thee Nell Gwyn!

Wreathe for ay thy snowy arms,
Thine are, sure, no wanton's charms!
Like the fawn's, as bright and shy,
Beams thy dark, retiring eye;
No bold invitation's given

From the depths of that blue heaven,
Nor one glance of lightness hid
'Neath its pale, declining lid!
No! I'll not believe thy name
Can be aught allied to shame!
Then let them call thee what they will,
I've sworn, and I'll maintain it still,
(Spite of tradition's idle din)

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,
Her brow was ghastly, and her lip

Was parch'd, as fever were its breath.
There was a shade upon her dark,
Large, floating eyes, as if each spark
Of minstrel ecstasy was fled,

Yet leaving them no tears to shed,-
Fix'd in their hopelessness of care,
And reckless in their great despair.

She sat beneath a cypress tree,
A little fountain ran beside,
And, in the distance, one dark rock
Threw its long shadow o'er the tide;
And to the west, where the nightfall
Was darkening day's gemm'd coronal,
Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky,
Arose the sun-god's sanctuary.
I deem'd, that of lyre, life, and love

She was a long last farewell taking ;-
That from her pale and parched lips
Her latest, wildest song was breaking.

SONG.

Mrs. Opie.

I ONCE rejoiced, sweet evening gale,
To see thy breath the poplar wave;
But now it makes my cheek turn pale-

It waves the grass o'er Henry's grave!

Ah! setting sun! how changed I seem !
Beyond thy rays I love deep gloom,
Since now, alas! I see them beam
Upon my Henry's lonely tomb.

Sweet evening gale! howe'er I seem,
I wish thee o'er my sod to wave;
Ah! setting sun! soon may'st thou beam
On mine, as well as Henry's grave!

THE ROSES.

Anonymous.

Two roses, just cull'd, and yet glistening with dew,
As fair as a garden e'er graced,

Were twined with the breast-knot and ribband of blue,
That bound Anna's delicate waist.

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,
Hath blabb'd out some favourite name.

I gazed on the roses, but quickly bethought
Of an object more lovely to view;

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,
And strove from my glances to fly;

As the sensitive plant shuns the touch of the hand,
Her modesty shrinks from the eye!

Yet quickly relenting, she said, looking kind,
As she drew from her bosom the flowers,
A covetous eye speaks a covetous mind,

So take them-the roses are yours.

Scarce pausing to thank her, I snatch'd them in haste,
And when to my lips they were press'd,

I could number each blossom her breath had embraced,
So fragrant it seem'd by the rest.

You frown'd, lovely maid, when I dared to avow
That I coveted more than you named;

And I fear, while you live, and are peerless as now,
For this fault I shall often be blamed.

But would you reform the offender you chide,
O let him not covet in vain!

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,
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Byron.

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee—
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe-

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O, yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away :

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
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

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?