When on some fair one's gentle breast,
Perchance a moment I recline,
My heart the while might surely rest,
And to the winds its woe resign;
Yet, though bewitching smiles allure,
No thrills of love pervade my frame;
Even beauty's presence yields no cure,
For care will still obtrude its claim,
And urge me on, I know not why,
(Though blest I seem) to sadly sigh.
Though sounds melodious do possess
A transient charm, that can compose
The maddening tumults of distress,
And all its wounds of anguish close;
Yet, not to me, can they impart

An antidote to soothe my soul,
For as I list, my restless heart
(Rebellious to their soft controul)
Feels sad, whilst oft, I know not why,
With strange perversity I sigh.

Then since nor wine, nor love has power,
Nor music's most exalted strain,

To charm away the listless hour,
And respite yield to mental pain;
Henceforth, towards heaven my anxious mind
(Its wandering course restrained) shall tend :
Solicitude, when thus refined,

May calmly with religion blend,

And resignation then defy
The sad reflection and the sigh.

Dec. 2, 1818.

D. D.

THE ROSY CHEEK'D LASS THAT LIVED DOWN IN THE VALE.

'TWAS just as the down on my cheek first began To kindle my pride, and proclaim me a man, And beneath the mild radiance of beauty's soft eye, My heart heaved like the sea when the moon smiles on high;

At eve I oft met, and told my fond tale

To the rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

With a tear of delight to those days I recur,

When every thing served to remind me of her;

She was sweet like the woodbine, the rose seemed to blow

But to vie with her cheek of more beautiful glow, And the nymph in the song, and the maid in the tale, Were that rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

Sometimes when my spirit dejected has been,

I have walk'd down the grove with a sorrowful mien, Yet backward returned through the very same place, With my heart quite at ease, and a smile on my face; Oh what was the charm o'er my grief could prevail? 'Twas my rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.

Now reclined in my bower on this fine summer eve,
From all I behold what delight I receive!→

See yon sweet little cherub that flies o'er the green,
So eager to tell what strange sights he has seen!
He is mine, and his mother, who smiles at each tale,
Is the rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.
J. PLAYER.

Newcastle upon Tyne.

STANZAS.

THE summer sun shining on tree and on tower,
And gilding the landscape with radiance divine,
May give joy to the heart o'er which pleasure has

power,

But eve's pensive beauties are dearer to mine.

How soothing alone by a streamlet to wander,
Whose scarce-ruffled face shows the pale evening
moon,

In glory less bright, but more lovely and tender
Than Sol's gaudy beams in the gay hour of noon.
Through trees gently sighing, the cool breeze of Even,
Seems Sympathy's voice to the ear of Despair;
And the dew-drops like tears shed by angels of
Heaven,

Revive the frail hopes in the bosom of care.

But the dew will be dried when the morning returning
Gives life to the busy, the happy, the gay;
And the breeze now so sweetly and tenderly mourning,
By the rude chilling blasts will be driven away.
Thus the hopes I so long and so fondly have cherish'd,
Are dispelled by the stern voice of merciless scorn;
And the friends who wept with me, like dew-drops
have perished,

While I remain lonely, unpitied, forlorn.

But here though each joy from my heart has been riven,

Soon shall my glad soul from its prison be free; A voice whispers sweetly, "Thy rest is in Heaven,

On earth nought but misery e'er waited on thee." Blest spirit, I come-how my soul yearns to meet thee;

On earth thou wert dearer to me than the light;— In Heaven with passion eternal I'll greet thee--There sorrow no more shall our happiness blight.

TO MARY.

Dear Mary those lips which once beamed with delight Oft told me thy heart was sincere;

And those eyes which still shine with such lovely blue light,

When I doubted were dimmed by a tear!

Ah! 'twas then in love's early and unclouded mòrn, When thy thoughts were so careless and gay;

But an evening unlooked for has closed on that dawn, And swept each sweet vision away.

Now sorrow has banished that smile from thine eye, A sad tear reigns alone in its place,

And those love-breathing lips, now alas breathe a sigh, As each tear trickles down thy sweet face,

"Tis duty's stern voice that has caused all thy care, And planted a thorn in thy breast;

Which has driven each once brilliant hope to despair, And the heart 't should have blest.

Yet amp mournful gem from thy cheek, And think of thy sorrows no more,"

For the dark cloud of woe which thy sad looks bespeak, Will, I trust dearest maid, soon be o'er.

As the sweet shower of April which oft journeys by, Is followed by summer's bright ray,

The tears which now shade the pure blue of thine eye, In affection will soon pass away.

ONE GLASS MORE.

STAY, mortal stay! nor heedless thus

Thy sure destruction seal:"

Within that cup there lurks a curse,

Which all who drink shall feel:

Disease and death, for ever nigh,
"Stand ready at the door,
And eager wait to hear the cry
Of give me 66 one glass more."
Go, view that prison's gloomy cells--
Their pallid tenants scan:
Gaze-gaze upon these earthly hells,
And ask when they began:

HENRIQUE.

Had these a tongue-Oh, man! thy cheek
The tale would crimson o'er;

Had these a tongue, they'd to thee speak,
66 one glass more."

And answer,

Behold that wretched female form,

An outcast from her home;

e. Bleach'd in Affliction's blighting storm, And doom'd in want to roam;

Behold her:-ask that prattler dear

Why mother is so poor?

He'll whisper in thy startled ear,

'Twas FATHER'S " one glass more!

Stay mortal, stay! repent, return!

Reflect upon thy fate;

The poisonous draught indignant spurn-
Spurn, spurn it, ere too late:

Oh, fly the alehouse' horrid din,

Nor linger at the door,

Lest thou, perchance shouldst sip again
The treacherous "one glass more!

New York.

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

VILLAGE MINSTREL.

Resumed from page 100.

The following morning I joined my four friends, between the hours of seven and eight, and having partaken of a bowl of milk and a slice of dry bread, we engaged a boat to convey us across the Loch to Rowardennan, an inn at the foot of Ben Lomond. Never shall I forget this short but delightful voyage. After so unpleasant a day as the preceding, we were rejoiced to find the atmosphere tolerably clear. We felt the cheering influence of the morning sun, although the clouds, which were still slumbering on the sides of the surrounding mountains, excluded all sight of the Tuminary itself. The air was perfectly at rest, and our little boat glided smoothly along the water, whose tranquil surface reflected most minutely the magnificent scenery of the Lake, without the slightest wave to interrupt the reflection. Of every mountain and island, with each tree and rock, which adorned them, we could discern so distinct an image, that, without much stretch of imagination, we might almost have fancied ourselves floating between two similar landscapes; the one rising sublimely above us, whilst the other seemed to rival it in all its charms, beneath our VOL. III.-No. XVI.

R