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"This carbuncle that on my finger glows
"Was once a living serpent's precious eye:
"Thus did an Arab sage his night's repose
Requite, of necromantic potency:

"For still, when woman's faith would go astray,
"This modest jewel pales its bright and sanguine ray.

"And still, whene'er her thoughts to vice incline, "That cup is brought to med'cine her offence; "And tears of rage then mingle with her wine,

"Would they were chang'd to tears of penitence! "I may not dare, till she be chaste and true, "So warn'd by holy dreams, remit the penance due.

" Now go in peace!" he said, and clasp'd him round
With courteous arms; the gates unfolding rang;
A barb with golden bit there paw'd the ground,
The grateful Merchant to the saddle sprang:
Pensive he left the castle-walls; but thence
He bore a wiser heart, and firmer innocence.

I

RETROSPECTION.

[From the same.]

S there who, when long years have past away,
Revisits in his manhood's prime the spot

Where stray'd his careless boyhood, nor in trance
Of recollection lost, feels silent joy

Flow in upon his heart? Whatever cares
Enthrall his weary spirit, let him feel

The gale upon his cheek, that whispering waves
The well-known tuft of trees, and dimples slow
The recollected stream, thought's busy train
Shall glance like pictur'd shadows o'er his mind:
Each airy castle of enthusiast youth
Shall dawn upon his fancy, like the towers
That sparkle in some forest of romance:

Each shade of circumstance that mark'd the scene
Of young existence, touch'd with fairy tint,
Sheds beauty not its own: that life of hope
And generous expectation, when the man
Was teeming in the boy, and the young mind,
Pleas'd with its own exertion, acted o'er
Each future impulse, and put forth the germs
Of native character. It cannot be-

Unless

Unless his heart is deaden'd by the touch
Of that mere worldliness, which bugs itself
In a factitious apathy of soul;

Unless, in vain and vacant ignorance,

He wondering smiles at those high sympathies,
Those pure unworldly feelings, which exalt
Our nature o'er the sphere of actual things;
Which lend the poet's gaze its ectasy,
And bid the trembling note of music steal
Tears down the listener's cheek ;-it cannot be
But his whole heart must soften and relent
Amid these peaceful scenes; but the deep griefs
Which time has stamp'd upon his furrow'd brow
Must for a moment smooth their thoughtful trace ;
And e'en the long remorse wild passion leaves,
Rest from the goading of its secret sting.
Scene of my boyish years! I not disown
These natural feelings. Let me rest awhile
Here on this grassy bank; beneath these elms
Whose high boughs murmur with the leafy sound
That sooth'd me when a child: when, truant-like,
Of the dull chime that summon'd me afar
Nought heeding, by the river-wave I lay,
Of liberty enamour'd, and the Muse.
As yon gray turrets rest in trembling shade
On its transparent depth, the days long past
Press on awaken'd fancy; when, averse
From sport, I wander'd on its loneliest banks,
Where not a sound disturb'd the quiet air
But such as fitly blends with silentness;
The whispering sedge-the ripple of the stream,
Or bird's faint note: and not a human trace,
Save of some hamlet-spire in woods immerst,
Spake to the sight of earth's inhabiters.

Then have I rush'd, prone from the topmost bank,
And given my limbs to struggle with the stream,
And midst those waters felt a keener life.
How soft thy milky temperature of wave,
Salubrious Thames! associate with delight
Thy stream to thrilling fancy flows, when faint
I languish in the sun-blaze; and with thee
Ingenuous friendships, feats of liberty

That reck'd not stern controul, and gravely sweet
The toils of letter'd lore, and the kind smile.
Of Him, who, e'en upbraiding, could be kind,

*

On

Of Mr. Savage, whose name must ever be associated with the blandi doctores of Horace, let me be permitted to indulge the remembrance. His system of tuition was calculated to exemplify the theory of the admirable Locke. He made instruction pleasant; and was therefore listened to and obeyed on a prin

ciple

On sooth'd remembrance throng. I would not feign
A fond repining which I did not feel;
I would not have the intermediate years
Roll back to second infancy, nor live
Again the life that haunts my memory thus
With sweet sensations: for the simple child
Is all unconscious of his pleasant lot;
His little world, like man's vast universe,
Is darken'd by its storms; and he, like man,
Creates his own disquietudes and fears;
And oft with murmurings vain of discontent,
Or bursts of idle passion, personates

His future part; the character of man.
No-tis the cant of mock misanthropy

That dwells on childish pleasures; which the child
With light insensibility enjoys,

Or rather scorns; while on his eager view
The future prospect opens, still in sight,
Still ardently desir'd. The Power all-wise
Alike to manhood and to infancy

Has dealt the dole of pleasures and of pains;
And manhood has its toys; its happy dreams;
Its gay anticipations, e'en as youth.
Not with a sigh of mournful, vain regret
I visit these green haunts; this placid stream;
But, while the scene to memory's retrospect
Reflects th' illusive tint which fancy throws
Upon the distant past, Hope too expands
Her gilded prospects; and the future smile;
With colours indistinct, but beautiful

As the dim clouds by gleams of day break ting'd
Ere the red sun-rise paints the mountain's brow:
I so am fram'd, that no depressing gloom
Has power to damp my shaping energies;
But still, as when a child, my glance can dart
Bright o'er the illumin'd future, and create
Its own ideal world of hope and joy.

ciple of love. Should these insignificant pages ever meet his eye, he may not be displeased to find that

The muse attends him to the silent shade.

I trust I shall be forgiven the excusable egotism, of paying this tribute of gra titude and respect to an elegant scholar, and most amiable man.

SYBILLE.

FAIR

SYBILLE. A TALE.

[From Miss MITFORD'S POEMS.]

AIR Wansbeck, when thy limpid stream
Is deck'd with Mays bright flowers,
And thy clear waters circling gleam,
Round Mitford's mossy towers.

How lovely is the blooming vale,
By woody mountains bound!
The spire high rises in the dale,
The village smiles around.

The modest mansion on the hill
Beams in the brightening ray;
Mitford's proud turrets crown the rill,
And all the vale is gay.

But dark is thy tempestuous flood,
When sad November lours;

And through old Bothall's gloomy wood,
The foaming torrent pours.

Then c'en the oak's last lingering leaves
The slippery path-way spread;
The long brown grass the foot deceives,
And mocks the uncertain tread.

The lady's chapel rises there,

Amid the darkening gloom;

Its mouldering walls still brave the air;
The maniac's lonely tomb!

No roof has crown'd those mouldering walls,
For many a wintry day;

An aged ash high o'er them falls,
With moss and lichens grey.

The dreaded spot the peasant flies,
For in the torrent's swell,

He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries,
Or the sad passing bell.

And in the raging of the storm,
When the blue lightnings glare,
He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form,
Swift flitting through the air.

Gay

Gay summor smil'd on Bothall bowers;
The setting sun's resplendent beam
Illumin'd fair Mitford's mossy towers,
Tinging with gold the living stream.

High o'er the flood the castle steep
Rear'd its proud head in feudal state;
Wav'd the broad banner on the keep;
Frown'd darkly grim the arched gate.

No pleasant sound of wassel gay
Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board;
Dark frowning, like his turrets grey,
Sate at the feast the haughty lord.

With Norman William Bertram came;
De Mitford's lovely heir he saw;
The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim;
And William's word was England's law.

Vainly the suppliant fair-one knelt,
Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke;
The King nor love nor pity felt-
She wept, but yielded to the stroke.

Not long she wept. Two lingering years
Two lovely smiling babes had given,
Still faster flow'd the mother's tears,

Till her soul sought its native heaven.

Goodly and brave, the youthful heir

To battle leads his father's power; And gay, and innocent, and fair,

His Sybille blooms; a northern flower!

And now, the Baron leaves the hall;
His chieftains pass the goblet round,
When from the castle's outer wall
Arose a harp's melodious sound.

Dark brows and rugged breasts had they;

But, who the minstrel's power withstands?
Who loves not well the rapturous lay,
Or pleasant tales from distant lands?

Well pleas'd the stubborn warriors smil'd;
The iron gates were backward flung:
And soon the harper's descant wild
Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.

And

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