that there is no freemason sign of friendship equal to that of standing to be shot together. But there was an unexpected preservative in this hazardous society. The colonel was incapable of exhibiting in the centre of his countenance that living splendour which made Falstaff raise Bardolph to the honour of his admiral; he could "carry no lantern in his poop." If envy could have invaded his generous soul, it would have arisen at the old, restored distinction of his comrade. He watched over his regimen ; kept him to the most judicious allowance of claret; and the red nose of the lieutenant never flamed again.
WHEN Hope's bright form has ta'en a heavenward flight,
Ah! where shall the immortal spirit find
Its wonted rest, or where the busy mind
Look for its one support ?-a rayless night
Alone would then pervade the anxious sight.
Casting a lingering look of fear behind,
But seeing nothing, onward might we wind,
Lost to each sense of pure religion's light;
This world would then a wilderness appear,
Where man benighted vainly looks for rest,
And still looks on, though it shall not be near,
And God denies this first, this great behest:
It cannot be-Hope is the Christian's stay,
The brightest beam that lights us on our way.
MONTAGUE SEYMOUR.
WHO WISHED FOR A SPECIMEN OF ORIGINAL POETRY.
CONDEMN'D in distant wilds to stray,
In early youth, a careless lay
Has oft beguiled my lonely day;
But Time, with sure and ceaseless flight,
Brought fears, and cares, and woes to light,
And veil'd those visions of delight;
And Duty view'd, with aspect stern,
Those fading flowers, and bade me learn
The wise and useful to discern.
Now when the shattering storm is past,
With raging winds, and skies o'ercast,
That strew'd my branches on the blast,
With trembling hand I strive again,
In hope to soothe my bosom's pain,
But touch the Saxon lyre in vain.
That withering hand can wake alone
The mountain harp's Eolian tone,
That speaks of times for ever gone,
That mourns the maiden in her shroud,
Or hails the hero on his cloud,
While winter winds are sweeping loud;
Or pours the strain of tender grief, Lamenting o'er some generous chief, Whose life was honour'd, bright, and brief.
BY HENRY BRANDRETH, JUN. ESQ.
THE Woodland stile!-'tis well-but yet,
Stella, we must not meet again!
We cannot meet as we have met-
The very thought brings back a train
Of hopes and fears, of joy and pain,
Each striving, vainly though, as if
They would e'en still my soul enchain,
In spite of many a year of grief.
Oh! it recalls each by-gone hour-
Life's brightest, happiest that of youth;
'Twas then I sought the vernal flower-
'Twas then I pledged eternal truth;
And such it had been still, in sooth,
Hadst thou but been-distracting thought!
That thou art not-here now, to smooth
My couch, with pain and sickness fraught.
Dost thou remember-sure thou hast
Not yet that one brief hour forgot-
When sad as thou I met thee last,
At e'entide, near th' accustom'd cot?
As mine it was thy favourite spot-
And, "Sure if happiness can dwell,"
Thou saidst," with man, that envied lot
Is his who owns yon woodland dell!"
For who can speak May's fragrant thorn?
Not he whom city walls enclose
'Mid noisy crowds, yet still forlorn,
Though babbling myriads aye oppose
His heedless footsteps-he 'tis knows
What is true solitude-to mark
The tide of joy, yet feel it flows
To wreck, not speed, his lonesome bark.
That have I known, and know it still-
But can it aid thee aught to claim,
When mine is nor the power nor will,
That we should meet again, enflame
Afresh our smouldering love ?—ask Fame—
Ask Fortune's proudest, richest store-
Bid me still idolize thy name
I'll do it, but we meet no more.
Full well thou know'st I love thee-know'st
How each mild voice resembling thine
Comes o'er my fluttering spirit-boast
Not then, nor use that power divine
Again around my heart to twine
Love's wreath-the smile, the tearful eye-
For as we should but part to pine,
So we should only meet to sigh.
That look of love, that melting tone,
That form they are another's now :
He gives a smile, and chides thy moan;
I can but bring a throbbing brow.
A hectic cheek, a heart which, though
'Tis beating now,
will soon be hush'd-
Brow, cheek, and heart will soon lie low,
By fair, yet false, affection crush'd.
Thy husband-though I love him not-
How can I love him ?-is to thee
What, had it been my happy lot
T' have wed thee, thou hadst been to me.
And can I, from suspicion free,
If from temptation, press the lip
Whence erst, in boyish levity,
I used love's sweetest nectar sip?
It may not be though cool the blood
To what it was in youth's fair prime,
"Twould boil like Etna's lava flood,
And hopes and feelings else sublime
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