SUBJECT OF THE PLATE.

FROM LORD BYRON'S "SIEGE OF CORINTH." "UPON his hand she laid her own--

Light was the touch but it thrilled to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,

Which fixed him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers long and white,

Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,
As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue
So deeply changed from what he knew:

Fair but faint-without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave on her bosom's swell,
And there seemed not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out yet the lids were fixed,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmixed
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirred by the breath of the wintry air,
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images frown;
Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go."

TRANSLATION FROM THE MORESCO.

OH! Lady, breathe no sigh for those,
And let no tear be shed,

Who rest in battle-field their head,
And sleep amid their country's foes
The slumber of the dead.

Thy pearly tears may stream around
Thy loved one's aching pillow
Or weep some darling soul who found
A grave beneath the billow;

Or like a widow'd matron twine
The cypress and the jessamine,

And strew the lily in its bloom,
Round the cold precincts of the tomb,
Where one is laid you fondly prest,
A youthful bridegroom to your breast.
Thongh lovely were the wreath you wove
As fairy hands could twine,

And heart forlorn ne'er gave to love,
A form more pure than thine;

Yet, Lady, weave no wreath for those,
And let no tear be shed,

Who rest in battle-field their head,

And sleep amid their country's foes,
The slumber of the dead.

For, oh! the warrior's fate may claim
A brighter meed, a higher fame;

He in the field of glory fell,

And thundering cannon rung his knell.

For him there is a holier sigh

In every wind that passes by;

And Heaven more precious tears shall shed
Round the unburied soldier's head.

But oft at morn and evening dim,
Oh! breathe a silent prayer for him;
And do thou to his soul impart
The warmest wishes of his heart.

F***.

SCOTTISH BALLAD.

IF ye a highland laddie meet
With een of bonny blue,

And he, wi voice sae soft and sweet,
Should for thy favour sue,
Ah! think him like the rose!
Though blooming, fresh and fair,
Deceitfully it glows,

For thorns, sharp thorns, are there!
The lad with een of brightest blue
Once loved poor lowland Jane,
She, simple lass, believed him true,
But, ah! the faithless swain,
She found him like the rose !
Thongh blooming, fresh and fair,
Deceitfully it glows,

And thorns, sharp thorns, are there!
Then lassies all, beware of love,

Though smiling is the boy,

Though sweet at first his flatteries prove,
You'll find each promised joy,

Alas! is like the rose!

Though blooming, fresh aud fair,

Deceitfully it glows,

And thorns, sharp thorns, are there!

IMPROMPTU,

CELINA AR-O-A.

On hearing the Bagpipe in the streets of Edinburgh.

TO no whiffling reed Albyn's sons ever listen,
'Tis for no feeble purpose their strong blast is blown,
In tinselled parade, O they care not to glisten-
To conquer or die, is the motto they own.

Full oft has their Slogan* the foeman's heart flouted,
Full oft have their tartans in battle front waved;
"Twas "Scotland for ever!" at Waterloo shouted,
That ended the strife and the nations were saved.
CHARLOTTE T. S. V.

Slogan. The war tune of the Highlanders.

ON MAN.

AND what is life! a fleeting shade
That glides along in swift decay!
And what is man! so wondrous made,
But image of an autumn day!
A mist obscures his infant years,

His dawning life is scarce discerned;
And what his youth, but doubts and fears?
His age, but sorrows hardly earned?
So Autumn's morn with mists obscured
Leaves hope there's yet a golden day;
But Sol remains in clouds immured,
And scarce vouchsafes one cheering ray.
And if the radiant god appear,

And gild with smiles the rising morn;
Evening steals on, both dank and drear,
And night swift follows-dark, forlorn.
So if in manhood's riper day,

Our sun should shine with lustre bright, Declining years obscure its ray,

And age leaves nought but darksome night. And is life but a fleeting shade?

And man but like an Autumn day? Man, that's so fair, so wondrous made, Born but to blossom and decay?

O no! a better hope we have!

When Autumn's gone, and Winter past,
A Spring of life shall cheer the grave,
And man, immortal, rise at last.
No mist shall then his morn obscure,
No clouded sun withhold its ray,
No evening dank, no night endure,
But his, one bright eternal day.

EPIGRAM.

PHYLLIS ne'er weeps with either eye,
And would you know the reason why?
Listen and you shall know :

Age! envious age! took one away;
The other (oh, I fear to say)

Was blinded by a blow.

A. T.

R. T.

WHAT is that Smile-that o'er the cheek
Of artless, blooming childhood strays;
That revels in the dimple sleek;

That charms the mother's tender gaze?
"Tis the bright sun of April's morn,
That rises with unsullied ray:

Nor marks the clouds that swift are borue
To wrap in shades the future day!

What is that soft, that languid Smile,
That mingles with a tender sigh:
Light spreads the timid blush the while,
And sweetly sinks the melting eye?
"Tis the bright dew-drop on the rose,
Sweet remnant of the early shower,
That will its ripened leaves unclose,
And to full fragrance spread the flower!
What is that Smile-whose rapturous glow
Passion's impetuous breath inspires,
Whilst Pleasure's gaudy blossoms blow,
And the eye beams with guilty fires?
"Tis the volcano's baleful blaze,
That pours around a fatal light;
Whose victim dies, that stops to gaze;
Whence safety is but found in flight!
What is that sad, that transient Smile,
That dawns upon the lips of wo;
That checks the deep-drawn sigh awhile,
And stays the tear that starts to flow?

"Tis but a veil cast o'er the heart,

When youth's gay dreams have passed away;
When joy's faint lingering rays depart,
And the last gleams of hope decay!

What is that bright, that fearful Smile,
Quick flashing o'er the brow of care,
When fades each fruit of mental toil,

And nought remains to check despair ?