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LONDON PUBLISHED BY JOHN ARLISS, 38, NEWGATE STREI I.

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SUBJECT OF THE PLATE.

FROM LORD BYRON'S "PRISONER OF CHILLON."

"HE faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless yet so tender-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb;
Whose tints as gently sunk away,
As a departing rainbow's ray--
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright;
And not a word of murmur---not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,---
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence---lost
'In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress,
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less :
I listened, but I could not hear---
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;

I called, and thought I heard a sound---
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
And rushed to him: I found him not,
I only lived in this black spot,

I only lived, I only drew

The accursed breath of dungeon dew;
The last---the sole---the dearest link,
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place!"

SONNET.

IT seem'd, fair foe, in humour like thine own,
Careless, fantastic, elegant and bold---

The hands of Nature, Beauty, Grace had thrown
Together, all the charms our hearts that hold---
Nature, her grand simplicity bestow'd,

Beauty, thy features form'd, and lit thine eyes,
Tuned thy warm voice; while still to Grace they owed
The charm of movement, and the choice of size.
Yet these alone had never won my heart,

A heart beyond mere beauty's power to warm,
They knew the bounds, where all such power must part,
And gave thee genius, as the master charm!

Illumed thy pleasing form with peerless mind,

A spell, which, while it beats, this wond'ring soul must ISIDORE.

bind.

LOUISA---THE FLOWER OF THE TYNE.
By the author of “ Fanny the Fair.”
NOW rests the red sun, in his caves of the ocean,
Now closed every eye, but of misery and mine,
While led by the moon-beam, in fondest devotion,
I dwell on her image, the flower of the Tyne.
Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom,

Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine, The snow-drop, and lily, would die on her bosom, Consumed in her splendour, the flower of the Tyne. So charming each feature, so guileless her nature, The youths fondly gaze, and pronounce her divine, So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty.--

My heart's stolen sigh is the flower of the Tyne. Her aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,

The Loves and the Graces her temples entwine; In manners, the saint and the syren uniting,--Blooms lovely Louisa, the flower of the Tyne. Tho' fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains, Tho' graceful and straight, as thy own silver pine, Tho' fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains, Yet fairer to me is the flower of the Tyne,

This poor throbbing heart one whole offering I give her, One temple to love be this bosom of mine,

O smile on thy victim, Louisa!---for ever

I'll kneel at thy altar, thou flower of the Tyne! Banks of the Ale, October, 1818.

RED IS THE ROSE;

A Dirge, written for the 18th of June:

How stately the oak that o'ershadows the Tay,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O!

Now blasted its beauty, and left to decay,

G. ST.

And the wild flowers are weeping o'er Johnny, O.

How gay to the pibroch they mustered that morn,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O!

The brave men of Athol, and heroes of Lorn,
No warrior so gallant as Johnny, O.

The flower of Braidalbin, the pride of his clan,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O!

The Gael's purest blood in his manly breast ran,
And leel was the heart of my Johnny, O.

But three little weeks-and I'm reft of the brave,
Red is the rose and bonny, O!

The blaze of his glory, now hallows his grave,
And Albin is sad for my Johnny, O.

They bid me be glad, on the day of his fame,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O!

I'm proud of his valour, and proud of his name,
But my heart is a-breaking for Johnny, O.

Yes-proud are the trophies that blazon our hall,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O'

But the sad heart must sob, and the trembling tear fall,

And I'll weep till I die, for my Johnny, O.

On each coming morn, of my country's proud day,

Red is the rose, and bonny, O!

I'll plait a fine wreath by the oak of the Tay,

A love-woven garland for Johnny,

Now, Athol, thy woodlands I'll traverse afar,
Red is the rose, and bonny, O !

And talk to his ghost, the poor victim of war,
"Twill sweeten the rest of my Johnny, O.
October 14th, 1818.

MORNING THOUGHT.

MARIA.

Oh the dreams of gay childhood are careless and sweet,

Where flowers and soft music and butterflies meet, Where the woods are more green, and the meadows more fair,

Than the woods or the meadows of truth ever were!' But the dreams of gay childhood are nothing in sooth, When match'd with the visions of passionate youth; Where all pleasures are raptures, which nought can excel,

Their source, the pure heaven of that eye loved so well. Then the flowers, are the lilies that bloom on that

brow,

And the music, that voice, which in dreams deigns

to vow.

And the bright varying blushes, so quickly that fly,
All the tints of the fair, summer flutterers outvie!
Oh Love! if each captive and votary of thine
Has visions, as soft and as lovely as mine,

Who shall dare to dispute, that thou know'st to repay,
By the sweets of thy night, all the cares of thy day!
EDWARD.

SIGHS.

THERE is a Sigh---that, half suppress'd,
Seems scarce to heave the bosom fair;

It rises from the spotless breast,

The first faint dawn of tender care.

There is a sigh---so soft, so sweet,

It breathes not from the lip of woe,
"Tis heard where conscious lovers meet,
Whilst yet untold, young passions glow.

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