So false and yet so fair! so fair a mien

Veiling so false a mind, who ever knew! So true and yet so wretched! who has seen A man like me, so wretched and so true? Fly from me on the wind, for you have seen How kind she was, how lov'd by her you knew me; Fly, fly vain witness what I once have been, Nor dare, all wretched as I am, to view me.

One ev'ning, on the river's pleasant strand,
The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,
And with her finger trac'd upon the sand
"Death for Diana-not inconstancy!"
And love beheld us from his secret stand,
And mark'd his triumph, laughing to behold me,
To see me trust a writing trac'd in sand,

To see me credit what a woman told me.

Robert Southey.

:

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ

ON MISS ROSE.

BENEATH this sod reclines that bashful flow'r,
Which sprung to please, and wither'd in an hour;
Yet one short space its vigour shall enliven,
And bloom a fairer, sweeter Rose in heaven.

Anonymous.

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON A LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF MR. ROGERS'S POEM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

PLEASURES of Mem'ry!-oh! supremely blest,
And justly proud beyond a poet's praise,
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays!
By me how envied! for to me,
The herald still of misery,
Mem'ry makes her influence known
By sighs and tears, and grief alone:

I greet her as the fiend to whom belong
The vulture's rav'ning beak, the raven's fun'ral song.

Alone, at midnight's haunted hour,
When nature woos repose in vain,
Remembrance wastes her penal pow'r,
The tyrant of the burning brain;
She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost,
Of fair occasions gone for ever by ;

;

Of hope too fondly nurs'd, too rudely cross'd,
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die;
For what, except the instinctive fear
Lest she survive, detains me here,
When "all the life of life" is fled?
What, but the deep inherent dread,
Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign,
And realize the heil that priests and beldames feign.

TO CYNTHIA.

:

THOU! whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night has lost her sweet repose.

Yet who, alas! like me was blest,

To others e'er thy charms were known; When fancy told my raptur'd breast That Cynthia smil'd on me alone?

Nymph of my soul! forgive my sighs;
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch who dies,
When others to thy beauties kneel.

Lo! theirs is ev'ry winning art,
With fortune's gifts, unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,

In love with INNOCENCE and THEE.

Peter Pindar. ODE TO INNOCENCE.

,

'TWAS when the slow declining ray

Had ting'd the cloud with ev'ning gold; No warbler pour'd the melting lay,

No sound disturb'd the sleeping fold;

When by a murm'ring rill reclin'd,

Sat wrapt in thought a wand'ring swain; Calm peace compos'd the musing mind, And thus he rais'd the flowing strain:

"Hail Innocence! celestial maid!

What joys thy blushing charms reveal!
Sweet as the arbour's cooling shade,
And milder than the vernal gale.

"On thee attends a radiant quire,

Soft smiling peace, and downy rest, With love, that prompts the warbling lyre, And hope, that sooths the throbbing breast.

"O, sent from heav'n to haunt the grove,
Where squint-ey'd envy ne'er can come;
Nor pines the cheek with luckless love,
Nor anguish chills the living bloom.

"But spotless beauty, rob'd in white,
Sits on you moss-grown hill reclin'd;
Serene as heav'ns unsully'd light,
And pure as Delia's gentle mind.

"Grant, heav'nly power! thy peaceful sway
May still my ruder thoughts controul;
Thy hand to point my dubious way,
Thy voice to sooth the melting soul!

"Far in the shady sweet retreat

Let thought beguile the ling'ring hour; Let quiet court the mossy seat,

And twining olives form the bow'r.

"Let dove-ey'd peace her wreath bestow,
And oft sit list'ning in the dale,
While night's sweet warbler from the bough
Tells to the grove her plaintive tale.

"Soft, as in Delia's snowy breast,
Let each consenting passion move;
Let angels watch its silent rest,
And all its blissful dreams be love."

Dr. Ogilvie.