we could almost say equalled; but Theodore partly makes amends for it, by the truth and philosophy of his sentiments.

All men are dreamers; from the hour
When reason first exerts its power,
Unmindful of its bitter sting,
To some deceiving hope we cling,-

That hope's a dream!

The brazen trumpet's clangour gives
The joy on which the warrior lives;
And at his injured country's call,

He leaves his home, his friends, his all-
For glory's dream!

The lover hangs on some bright eye,
And dreams of bliss in every sigh?
But brightest eyes are deep in guile,
And he who trusts their fickle smile,

Trusts in a dream!

The poet, nature's darling child,
By fame's all-dazzling star beguiled;
Sings love's alternate hope and fear,

Paints visions which his heart holds dear,

And thus he dreams!

And there are those who build their joys,
On proud ambition's gilded toys,
Who feign would climb the craggy height,
Whose power displays its splendid light,-
But dreaming fall!

Whilst others 'midst the giddy throng
Of pleasure's victims, sweep along ;
Till feelings damp'd and satiate hearts,
Too worn to feel when bliss departs,―
Prove all a dream !

And when that chilly call of fear,
Death's mandate hurtles in the ear;
We find, would we retrace the past,
E'en life at best now fading fast,-

Is all a dream!

THEODORE.

From the New European Magazine.

SAINT VALERIE.

THE following is a tender and melancholy picture of unfortunate love withdrawing from the world, and terminating all its hopes and desires in religious solitude.-ED.

Raised on the rocky barriers of the sea,
Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie!
Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine trees tall
Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall,
Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep
Of mountain-waters rushing to the deep,
The tempest's midnight song, the battle-cry
Of warring winds, like armies mét on high,
And in the silent hour the convent chime,
And sometimes, at the quiet evening time,

A vesper song-those tones, so pure, so sweet,
When airs of earth and words of heaven do meet ;
Sad is the legend of that young saint's doom!
When the spring rose was in its May of bloom,
The storm was darkening; at that sweet hour,
When hands beloved had reared her nuptial bower,
The pestilence came o'er the land, and he

With whom her heart was, died that very morn-
Her bridal morn! alas! that there should be
Such evils ever for affection born!

She shrank away from earth, and solitude

Is the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain;
Life had no ties,-she twined her into heaven,
And on the steep rock reared her holy fane.
It has an air of sadness, as just meet
For the so broken heart's last lone retreat!-
A portrait here has still preserved each charm:
I saw it one bright evening when the warm
Last glow of sun-set shed its crimson ray
O'er the lovely image. She was fair
As the most radiant spirits of the air,
Whose life is amid flowers; like the day,
The golden summer day, her glossy hair
Fell o'er a brow of Indian ivory;

Her cheek was pale, and in her large, dark eye
There was a thought of sorrow, and her brow
Upon one small snow hand leant pensively,
As if to hide her tears-the other prest
A silver crucifix upon her breast.
I ne'er saw sadness touching as in thee
And thy lorn look, oh fair ST. VALERIE !

F

Literary Gazette.

SPIRITS OF HEAVEN.

THE fickleness and restlessness of mind which father Francis betrays in the following lines, depict, we believe, naturally enough, the revolutions of desire and mutability of feeling peculiar to those who seclude themselves from the world, and devote their lives to religious exercises. If we have any fault to find with the poet, it is for not making the supplicant invoke a few more of the ethereal visitants, for we believe that even those who mix with the world, and who, consequently, are less exposed to the influence of mental impressions than Father Francis, experience more alternations in their antipathies and desires, and, consequently, invoke a greater number of spirits, or, in other words, seek to gratify a greater number of restless cravings, than he did. The solitary recluse, however, is more subject to this fever of the mind than he who mingles and jostles with the world. ED.

SPIRITS OF HEAVEN.

Spirit of Joy! I will call upon thee!

With thy bounding step and thy radiant smile;
Thou shalt teach me thy mirth and thy revelry,
For thou can'st the cares of life beguile.
Yet leave me, ah, leave me! all gay as thou art,
I love not thy vain and idle folly;
Thy laughter oppresses the weary heart,

And leaves it to languor and melancholy.

Spirit of Peace! descend from the sky,

With thy calm, pure look, and thy promise of rest; And let the beam of thy dove-like eye

Still the throbs of this troubled breast:

Yet daughter of heaven! thy pinion fold,
My restless soul will not bend to thy sway;
For thy smile, tho' sweet, is strangely cold,
And it chills my spirit-away! away!

Spirit of Love! obey my voice!

And lead my steps to thy fairy bowers, And let my heart in thy smile rejoice,

And crown my brow with thy brightest flowers.

Ah, traitor! thy roses too swiftly fade,

Too soon the captive shall feel thy chain;
And many a heart by thy smile betrayed,
Shall sigh for its freedom-but sigh in vain.

Spirit of Hope! from thy bright cloud bend,
No power can thy endless charm destroy;
If thou wilt ever my steps attend,

My life shall be one bright round of joy.
Angel of Beauty! thy guardian wing

Shall shield me from every earth-born sorrow!

I feel not the anguish to-day may bring,

If still thou wilt promise a blissful morrow!

Netley Abbey,

FATHER FRANCIS.

Literary Gazette.-- No. 312.