No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too:
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

THE DRUM.

I HATE that Drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms, Of tawdry lace, and glitt'ring arms; And, when Ambition's voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that Drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round :
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows,

To fill the catalogue of human woes.

Scott's Poetical Works.

No glory I covet, no riches I want,

Ambition is nothing to me;

The one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant,
Is a mind independent and free.

With passion unruffled, untainted by pride,
By reason my life let me square ;
The wants of my nature are cheaply supply'd,
And the rest is but folly and care.

The blessings which Providence freely has lent,
I'll justly and gratefully prize;

Whilst sweet meditation, and cheerful content,
Shall make me both healthy and wise.

In the pleasures the great man's possessions display, Unenvied I'll challenge my part;

For ev'ry fair object my eyes can survey,

Contributes to gladden my heart.

How vainly, through infinite troubles and strife,

The many their labours employ;

Since all that is truly delightful in life,

Is what all, if they will, may enjoy.

Literary Magazine.

R

A ROUNDELAY.

WHILE these close walls thy beauties hide,
Immur'd within this guarded grove;
Or the clear stream's opposing side,
The muse shall wail my hopeless love.

My love-which nothing can outvie,
Which never shall a period know;
Ye breezes, tell her as ye fly;

Ye waters, bear it as ye flow.

And tho' (by adverse friends confin'd)
The yielding fair I vainly crave;
O bring her murmurs, gentle wind,
Her image, ev'ry ebbing wave!

Yet, oh! ye winds, her sighs conceal;
Nor you, ye waves, reflect her face ;
Lest Aeolus my passion feel,

And Neptune sues for her embrace.

Small need you shou'd her accents bear,

Or to my view her form impart, Whose voice dwells ever on my ear, Whose image ever in my heart.

Vocal Magazine.

ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.

OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain, And pray'd till I've been weary, For once I'll try my wish to gain Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
That lurks in woods unseen,
Or oft, by Cynthia's silver light,
Trips gaily o'er the green.

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,

And for th' Athenian maid that lov'd
Thou sought'st a wond'rous spell,

O deign once more t' exert thy pow'r,
Haply some herb or tree,
Sov'reign as juice of western flow'r,
Conceals a balm for me.

Ah! haste, and shed the sacred balm,
My shatter'd nerves new string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indiff'rence bring.

At her approach see fear, pale fear,
And expectation fly!

And disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the promis'd joy.

The tear that pity taught to flow,

The eye shall then disown;
The heart that griev'd for other's woe,
Shall then scarce feel its own;

And wounds that now each moment bleed;
Each moment then shall close;
And tranquil days shall then succeed
To nights of sweet repose.

O fairy elf, but grant me this,
This one kind comfort send;
And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flow'ry paths attend.

Só may the glow-worm's glittering light
Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread.

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd

With heaven's ambrosial dew,
From sweetest, freshest flow'rs distill'd,
That shed fresh sweets for you.