"Paint a boy with angel face,
Full of charms, and full of grace,
In whose every look shall shine
Tenderness and truth divine.

"O'er those eyes no fillet bind,
For I know he was not blind
On that day when first his dart
Through their glances reached my heart.

"Let his lips divinely smile,

Make him lord of each soft wile,

Parent of each pleasing joy;

Thus, oh, thus depict the boy!

"Heardst thou not?-Begin thy task;

When 'tis finished, come and ask
Large rewards, and thou shalt have
All thine eager wish can crave."

Phillis ceased-and he again
Answered, "Simple maid! in vain

Thou wouldst tax, with guileless heart,

All the magic of my art.

"Ere I seek to picture Love,

Wait awhile, fair maid, and prove,

If I may indeed portray

All the charms he wears to-day.

"Phillis, these enchantments bright, All are brief and swift of flight;

Even now a dark alloy

Mingles in thy cup of joy.

"Pause a trifling space, and see

If Love remain unchanged to thee;
If he should-return! and I

Will freely give what thou wouldst buy."

Joyful went fair Phillis home,

Sure again with joy to come,

And the promised semblance claim,

Of Love still smiling, still the same.

But the sad reverse-alas!

Vain illusions, how ye pass!

Hope's enchantments, bright and fair,

All dissolve in empty air.

Love the maid has learned to know,
As her fierce and cruel foe;
Charms and smiles have vanished all,
And his sweets have turned to gall.

"Ah!" the experienced Painter said,
"How your brilliant colours fade;
See, how Love betrays the truth
Of ardent and confiding youth."

THE COTTAGE EMIGRANTS.

WHEN yellow leaves were falling
From every trembling spray,

I met three cottage children
One bleak autumnal day.

They'd all day long been roaming
Among the purple heath,

And plaited many a ferny crown,
many a harebell wreath.

And

They'd sung to every merry bird
That gaily flitted by,

And chased upon his lonely flight
The year's last butterfly.

They'd drank the crystal waters

Of many a gushing spring, And blithely traced with jocund feet

The fairies' emerald ring.

To them the bramble yielded

Refreshment by the way,

When they cull'd its luscious treasure,

And the hawthorn's coral spray.

And often as they rested

On rustic stile or rail,

They artlessly recounted

Some pretty childish tale.

'Twas pleasant, in my lonely walks
To meet that loving train;
But now, at morn or eventide,
I look for them in vain.

Stern Want has rudely forced them
With exiled bands to roam,

To seek in distant lands the bread
They could not win at home.

And soon their native England,
And Suffolk's verdant vales,
Will seem like dreamy memories,
Or scenes in fairy tales.

But brighter hopes shall greet them
Amidst the pathless wild,

Than e'er on Britain's cultured soil
For British peasants smiled.

The hands that wove the useless flowers
Are called the sheaves to bind,

While golden harvests of their own

The sons of labour find.

The children's faces brighten
Around the evening blaze,
While Industry forgets the toils
Of busy, well-spent days.

And when those toils rewarding,

Broad lands at length they'll claim,

They'll call the new possession

By some familiar name.

The name beyond all others,
Endeared in grief or mirth,
Of that far-distant village

Which gave the exiles birth.

ON THOUGHTS OF HIGH AND TENDER MELANCHOLY.

Он, thoughts of high and tender melancholy, That steal with holy softness o'er the soul! Who would exchange for the vain noise of folly, Your soothing influence and divine control?

The world's delusive colours fade before ye, When the afflicted breast admits your sway; Oh, come with all your solemn sweetness o'er me, And chase the gloom of earthly cares away!

What though ye wear the pensive veil of sadness, And bid us weep o'er idly wasted years,

'Tis

yours to calm the tumult and the madness Of feverish hopes and agonizing fears.

Pure from the base alloy of earthward feeling,
Ye point the frailty of all human bliss;
To breaking hearts and tearful eyes revealing
A world more worthy of our love than this.