In her bed-chamber, facing the sun's early rays, Which 'twas Lizabette's pleasure in happier days, Devoutly the head she depos'd in its round, Then cover'd it deep with fresh soil from the ground, With her flowing tears water'd and fan'd with her sighs, The basil-tree flourishing grows; ,, And morning and night a sweet odour supplies, Her brothers observe her decline day by day, "We see her all day bending over a vase, "And round it she wreaths her pale hands." When this they had heard, they by stealth in the night O God, how she griev'd at return of the light, "Restore me the vase! bring the basil-tree back!" So sorely she griev'd, and no succour would take, Alarm'd and much wondering what it should be, They knew it again by its ringlets of gold; Their conscious affright to each other they told, On her bed lay poor Lizabette, no more to rise, Still demanding the vase, the tears stream'd from her eyes, Till she sunk on her pillow and died. CANZONET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE HON. W. SPENCER. SWEET flower! I place thee on the tomb Of her my soul lov'd best; But changeful here will be thy bloom, R. A. D. ODE. WHERE shall I meet a friend? I pine alone, Alike in all, in years, pursuits and heart; Shut up in friendships, well tried, firm and fond, And there is surely one (if we could meet) He shuns the noise of vulgar crowds profane. Should reach your valley, my belov'd to be, Is thine. Arise, in search of his retreat, M. N. SONG. HAVE you not seen the rippling stream Have you not seen the bashful rose Its beauties to the ruder gale?— That my poor, throbbing heart doth move. Have you not seen with amorous coo His downy mate the turtle woo, Without one wandering wish to stray That my poor throbbing heart doth move. Have you not seen the lily's stem As pure, but hopeless is the love, That my poor throbbing heart doth move. LINCOLN, APRIL 1811. J. C. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. FAREWELL, lovely land, where in youth I have sported, Ere sorrow and care taught my bosom to mourn: Adieu, native mountains, from you I'm departed, And my beating heart whispers no more to return. cheeks are the big tears of sorrow now streaming, O'er my And Nature resumes in my heart all her sway; In my eye every scene of my childhood is beaming, But from those lovely scenes I am far far away. Thou land of my forefathers! inust I then leave thee, And suffer ambition to tempt me to roam? In yon foreign land will affection receive me? Ör there shall I find what I leave-a sweet home? Ah! no: for misfortune my steps still attending, Will doom my 'lorn bosom to anguish and woe: Not a sigh, not a tear, on my ashes descending! Not a bosom to beat with affection's warm glow! MR. J. IRVING. |