STANZAS.

BY CHARLES MAY.

Well, we must part-thyself hast spoken,
And thou never hast deceived;
I will not say, I am bereaved,
I will not say, my heart is broken.
I will not bid thee think upon

The woes that rend this tortured breast;
For well, full well, I know thine own
Is not the careless seat of rest.

I will not mind thee of thy vow,

That here, in this loved spot we plighted; For, ob, I feel that, willing, thou

Hadst ne'er that sacred promise slighted. Lips, fraught with eloquence of woe, Eyes, drowned in ready flowing tears, I might suspect- but never, no

The silent grief thy aspect wears.

That cold, white cheek, that changing brow,
Lips, eyes, that can nor speak nor weep;

Oh, these too well reveal, that thou
The pang of parting feelest deep.
Yet, let us part-without a sigh,
Without a murmur let us part;
And tho' remembrance may not die,
Yet be it ours to lull its smart.
Thy calm communicates to me
Feelings that mock at puny care;
Thy firmness is not apathy,

And mine is not almost despair.
Farewell-till memory cease to pain
So deep-oh, chase it far from thee;
When calm reflection lives again,

Then sometimes lend a thought of me.

ZOE AND MURIOTTI.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY."

The evening was calm and serene after the horrors of the storm; the air breathed a balmy and refreshing coolness, and the turbulent waves were smoothed into soft tranquillity. Upon a high projecting rock of one of the islands of the Archipelago, stood a light and sylph-like figure in an attitude of anxious suspense-of deep-felt anguish. It was a young female, on whose sweet countenance the first blossoms of youth had scarcely mellowed into ripeness. Her rich unrestrained hair streamed wildly on the breeze;—a light flowing garment hung loosely on her beauteous form, and more enhanced her youthful charms than all the ornaments of art.

She seemed unconscious of the pelting rain, that, after the first fierce burst of the storm, had fallen profusely around her. Her delicate limbs were drenched; but she seemed not to feel the piercing chillness, for the powers of her soul were intent on an object that called forth all her solicitude. Her eyes were bent in wild earnestness towards the island of Ipsara.

During the day, large and undulating columns of smoke had shot from that devoted place, and clearly betokened that some fresh calamity had befallen it; that the savage Turk had signalized his rage against his victims, by some new act of barbarity. Zoé, unmindful of the inclemency of the weather, had remained many an hour on that high and craggy point. Towards evening every thing was again serene and clear; her eyes were strained to catch any object from the dear spot that contained all she prized most in life, for there, in that ill-fated Ipsara, dwelt Muriotti-Muriotti, the fond companion of her infancy—the ardent friend of her youth-her own betrothed lover;-and now the sky grew clearer from the fiercer conflict of the elements, one bright