THE ADIEU.

Let me but pu' this opening rose,
And fondly press it to my bosom;
I ask no other flower that blows,

·

Be mine this modest little blossom.

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"The lady who favoured the public with the well-known Song called Roy's Wife,' says a writer in the Literary Chronicle, forgot to mention the obligation she lay under to the original, of which the above is a close imitation, and, in some instances, a literal translation. This beautiful air is at least a hundred and twenty years old, for I learned it twenty-eight years ago, from a Mrs. M'Hardy, who was then in the hundred and sixth year of her age, and who said, that when a little girl, she had learned it of her mother; whereas, the Scottish words to the same tune have not been known half that time. Indeed, the greater part of the old Scottish melodies may be traced back to the Gaelic bards: 'The ewie wi' the crooked horn,' 'The rock and the wee pickle tow,' &c. are of Gaelic original, and have been known in the Highlands from time immemorial. As I am now upon this subject, I cannot help mentioning, that the last stanza of Roy's Wife' has been rendered downright nonsense, by the creation of the uncouth term Walloch, in order to rhyme with the proper name, Aldavalloch. New words are daily invented, to designate things not already adequately described, but no such dance as 'The Highland Walloch' ever did exist, though any one but a Highlander, on reading the stanza in question, would be led to suppose the reverse.'

THE ADIEU.

THE boatmen shout, "'tis time to part,
No longer can we stay;"

'Twas thus Maimuna taught my heart,

How much a glance could say.

With trembling steps to me she came;
"Farewell," she would have cried!
But ere her lips the word could frame,
In half-form'd sounds it died.

Then kneeling down with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung;
And as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.

My willing arms embraced the maid,

My heart with raptures beat;

While she but wept the more, and said,

"Would we had never met."

Abou Mohammed, a celebrated musician of Bagdad, says Professor Carlyle in his Selections from Arabian Poetry, 1810, being desired to produce a specimen of his abilities before the Khaliph Wathek, A. Hejræ 227, sung the foregoing, and such were its effects upon the Khaliph, that he immediately testified his approbation of the performance, by throwing his own robe over the poet's shoulders, and ordering him to receive a present of one hundred thousand dirhams.

Twenty-two and a half dirhams, according to our authority, the Hindostan Dictionary, being about equal to nine shillings sterling, any gentle poet of calculation may, at his leisure, sum up the copy-right price of this eminently beautiful Eastern production.

MATILDA'S DREAM.

NIGHT closed around: in gusts the hail
Beat furious down the rocky steep:
Matilda's ruddy cheek grew pale,

As the blast yell'd round in angry sweep.

MATILDA'S DREAM.

The thunders roll'd above the wood,

The red-stream'd lightnings play'd around; Near a lone blasted oak she stood,

Where the pale glow-worms lit the ground.

Where can I rest my wearied form,
In frantic mood the lady cried,
Or shield my baby from the storm?

And such a storm!—she wept and sigh'd.

Where loud waves round the dark clifts beat,
A flickering gleam of light she spied;
Cold shivering through the driving sleet,
O'er the sharp flinty rocks she hied.

The scorched heath, and the feathery brake,
Hung withering o'er the dingle's side,

As lorn she wander'd by the lake,

With the struggling moonbeams for her guide:

Unseemly weeds of varied hue,

Grew round the cavern tall and rank;
Here, drop-wort-there, the monk's hood blue,
Tangled the dark lake's hoary bank.

In sooth, this was as wild a scene,
As mortal eye had ere survey'd;

Or fancy dream'd could ere have been,
Found on the world, where'er we stray'd.

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Unearthly sounds thrill'd on the ear,

Which grew not with the passing blast; But rose from 'neath the night-shade drear, Scaring the gray-owl screaming past.

Hush, baby! though the warring wind
Ring louder its rude lullaby,

It cannot be to thee unkind,

Nor harm my darling should he cry.

Here lay thee down, this mossy bed
Is soft and warm; calm be thy sleep,
Sound thy repose, as round thy head
I strew the fern, and vigil keep.

Within the cavern's deep recess,

She heard the plaintive voice of woe; It's wail was one of deep distress, Dying away in accents slow.

A well-known voice assails her ear;-
My Henry's! hark! another groan,
The helping hand of heaven be near,
O shield him, leave him not alone!

The struggle's o'er, the echoes die,

That rose within the rock-bound cave,

Save where a deep convulsive sigh,

Half-drown'd within the tempest's rave,

MATILDA'S DREAM.

Appeal'd for mercy to the foe,

Who raised above the wounded man His sword, and aim'd a deadly blow, While shrieking wild, Matilda ran,

Like maniac frenzied to despair,
And grasp'd the ruffian's pointed steel;
his life! my Henry spare!

spare

For my soul's dear love compassion feel.

O ruffian! soothe thy ill-timed

rage,

He never harm'd thee: could'st thou know

His worth as I do, thou'dst assuage
Thy fell revenge, and pity show.

The frowning villain's eye grew bright,
He seiz'd Matilda's trembling hand:

If fiend from stygian shades of night
Can feign to smile, and whisper bland,

That smile's unearthly; for his rung
Wild aspirations through the hall;
While she on the fainting victim clung-
Life's ebbing wave, essay'd to recall.

Wild thoughts now flit across her mind,
Despair chased every hope away;

Nor left one sunny ray behind,

To soothe the chillings of dismay.

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