ON PARTING.

Lord Byron

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,

Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,

An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write--to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

THE SONG OF A SCOTTISH EMIGRANT.

Horace Twiss.

THE shadows are stealing on forest and brake,
And again the chill desert is heavy with dew:
And still the wide waves of the wearisome lake

Roll, dim thro' the mist, on the heart-sick'ning view.
Still, still, from the dawn till the last fading light,

By the shores of Ontario I wander alone;

But the dream of fair Scotland has cheer'd me by night, And her plaid wrapp'd me warm on my pillow of stone,

Yet not the long deserts, nor chill-falling damp,

Have struck to my heart desolation so deep,
As the ravage that swept through our colony's camp,
When the Indians beset us in silence and sleep.
Lost friends of my youth! why escaped I alone,

To traverse the dark heath, and listen behind,

While the yell of the Cannibals drown'd your death-groan, And the fires of their banquet blazed high in the wind!

How many, unconscious, in Scotland's sweet bow'rs,
Even now breathe a pray'r for the friends who have roved!
On the spots where we linger'd they cherish the flow'rs,
And sing, in the evening, the songs that we loved!
Away, ye vain phantoms of tender regret!

Too fondly, too madly, ye crowd on my brain!-
Oh! no, do not fade-I will welcome you yet,

In your wild-fleeting visions of rapture and pain!

Even here, lovely Scotland! in want and in woe,
With a proud recollection I muse upon thee;
For thy spirit is pure as thy mantle of snow,

And firm as thy rocks that embosom the sea.
May the waters of Time, while their current shall pour,
Ever nourish thy laurels, and brighten their hue!
May Friendship and Feeling still hallow thy shore,
And the loves of thy children be tender and true!

OUR PRINCE'S DAY.

T. Moore.

THO' dark are our sorrows, to day we'll forget them, And smile thro' our tears, like a sun-beam in showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours!

But just when the chain

Has ceas'd to pain,

And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,

There comes a new link

Our spirit to sink!—

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;

But tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!
Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,

Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array;

The standard of green

In front would be seen.

Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,

And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He love's the green isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts, which have suffer'd too much to forget;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,

And thus, Erin, my country! tho' broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay;
A spirit that beams thro' each suffering part,

And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day!

THE GROTTO.

Sheridan,

UNCOUTH is this moss-covered Grotto of stone,
And damp is the shade of this dew-dropping tree:
Yet I this rude grotto with rapture will own;
And, Willow, thy damps are refreshing to me.

For this is the grotto where Fanny reclin'd,
As late I in secret her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.

Then tell me, thou Grotto of moss-covered stone,
And tell me, thou Willow, with leaves dropping dew,
Did Fanny seem vex'd when Horatio was gone,
And did she confess her resentment to you?

Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;

To hint how she frown'd, when I dar'd to advise,
And sigh'd, when she saw that I did it in zeal.

True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;

She frown'd--but no rage in her looks could I see ; She frown'd-but reflection had clouded her brow; She sighed but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.