Well, let it be! Through weal and woe, And thou a thing of hope and change. VIOLA. A FRAGMENT. SHE had a form; but I might talk till night, Their wreaths, like wind kissed lilies of the vale ;- Still, though she's in her grave-the cheek I loved, With the dark tress that veiled it. When I sat Beneath her eye, I felt its splendour on me Like a bright spell.-'Tis not the diamond's ray, Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful In that ascending sun, or in this world, Can bring me back its image ;-'twas a soul That has no portraiture on earth; a beam As we have heard of Angels, where no lips Are wanted to give utterance to the thought; Her eye was radiant thought. Yet when her voice Spoke to me, or, at evening o'er her lute, Breathed some old melody, or closed the day With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have turned, Even from the glory of her eye, to weep, With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears, On earth, I weep no more.-She's in the grave! New Times. TO THE IVY. BY MRS. HEMANS. OH! how could fancy crown with thee Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Where song's full notes once pealed around, But now are heard no more! The Roman, on his battle-plains, Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green, Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Where years are hastening to efface Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods, On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes And cities of the dead; Deserted palaces of Kings, Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,— And all once-glorious earthly things, At length are thine alone. Oh! many a temple, once sublime Beneath a blue, Italian sky, Hath nought of beauty left by time, And reared midst crags and clouds 'tis thine High from the fields of air, look down, Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,- The breathing forms of Parian stone, "Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see; The marvels of all ages fled, Left to Decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength,— Days pass, thou Ivy never sere, And all is thine at length. Literary Gazette. THE RETURN FROM INDIA, WRITTEN BY AN OFFICER, LONG RESIDENT IN INDIA, ON HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND. I CAME, but they had passed away The fair in form, the pure in mind,— And like a stricken deer I stray, Where all are strange, and none are kind, Kind to the worn, the wearied soul, That pants, that struggles for repose: O! that my steps had reached the goal Years have passed o'er me like a dream, Some relict of a former age. Where stranger voices mock my ear,- Oh I had hopes-but they are fled! "Tis but to bear a weary load, I may not, dare not, cast away! To sigh for one small, still abode, Where I may sleep as sweet as they !— As they, the loveliest of their race!— To weep beneath the silent moon, With none to chide, to hear, to see!— Life can bestow no dearer boon, On one whom death disdains to free. I leave a world that knows me not, To hold communion with the dead; Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. But soon the last dim morn shall rise,— Who sighed for GOLD, and found it DROSS. SONG. THE ring you gave, the kiss you gave, Pledges of truth and gifts of love,- The ring is broken,—and by whom? And many, many, bitter tears That shining curl have stained!— Yes, each and all are wholly changed!- But the worst change is that which time, Literary Gazette. L. E. L. L |