The Graces too, with spritely air,

Assisted in the work divine;

The Arch they formed with nicest care,
And made the murm'ring stream incline.

Then Fancy, from the pile above,

Would gaze with rapture, bending o'er;
And charmed, behold the streamlet rove,
While Echo mocked its sullen roar.

And here, perhaps, the Indian stood,
With uplift hands, and eye amazed;
As, sudden, from the devious wood,
He first upon the fabric gazed!

See Tadmor's domes and halls of state,
In undistinguished ruin lie;
See Rome's proud empire yield to fate,
And claim the mournful pilgrim's sigh.

But while relentless time impairs

The monuments of crumbling art,
This pile unfading beauty wears,
Eternal in its every part.

are very irregular. In some parts, they are smooth and perpendicular, in others there are cavities, while other parts exhibit a protuberant and craggy surface. The bridge crosses the vale obliquely. In the middle, it is 65 feet in breadth, but much wider at the ends. The banks, which support the bridge, extend, with the same height, several hundred yards on each side of the stream, but they do not correspond with each other, as if rent asunder. Neither does "the fissure continue straight for a considerable distance above and below the bridge." Its course resembles an ill formed S, spreading wider as it extends either above or below. Few persons have the courage to approach the side of this bridge. Those who do are instantly seized with horror. They involuntarily fall to the ground, cling to a stone, or tree, look down on the frightful abyss below, and gaze with astonishment at the massy walls, the deep winding valley, the rushing stream, and the distant hills. To persons below, a prospect not less awful and grand is presented. Men view the towering arch, its strong foundations, and the distant sky; and adore that God who spake, and it was done; who commanded, and it stands fast.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

I take the liberty to send you the subjoined copy of an epistle to the bard of Caledonia. Should you think it deserving a place in your elegant Miscel lany I shall consider your approbation as a sure pledge of its favourable reception by the celebrated author to whom it was addressed. As it is the production of one whose reading has been much confined, should any resemblance to the lines of others be discovered, the author trusts that candour will attribute them to a casual coincidence of sentiment; not to an intention of passing on the public as his own, what is in fact the property of another.

Though highly sensible to the mediocrity of his talents, he would disdain to pilfer from any, and there are few from whom he would condescend to borrow.

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

Nemo te lachrymis decoret, neque funera fletu
Faxit: cur? volitis vivu per ora virum.

In these uncultur'd, wild dominions,
Where avarice holds her tyrant sway,
And luxury in proud array,

Swells her long train with Fortune's minions;
Can aught inspire a bard to raise,
The tributary song of praise?
To pour the soul-enchanting lay,
And soaring wing his airy way
On fancy's rainbow-tinted pinions?
Alas, the lyrc neglected lies,
And Genius proud, deserted dies:
Or forc'd with swelling heart to bow
To some unjoyous cold pursuit,

Which damps each fine romantic feeling;

The tuneful voice now hushed and mute;
The pallid cheek and frowning brow,

His inward high disdain revealing,
Down his wan cheek the big tear stealing,
I see him breathe an ardent vow,
And dash to earth his shattered lute.
Oppressed he leaves the muses' court,
His piercing eye and lofty port
But ill a broken heart concealing.

Yes, Scott, such cruel fate attends, In this rude clime, the Muses' friends: Here all must bow to law and trade, And humble homage must be paid To Folly, if in wealth array'd. Even Vice can purchase fair renown, If Wealth her base exertions crown: But talents languish in the shade: While Poësy, enchanting maid, And towering Genius here are born To brook the world's malignant scorn: Or sad retire to some wild mountain And sigh beside the murmuring fountain. Yet even in this unbless'd retreat, The pensive poet still shall meet, One guerdon to his soul most dear, In woman's angel smile and tear. Yes, lovely woman, thou shalt cheer, With sweetest smile, his prospect drear; And when his spirits sink beneath A broken heart, and close in death, Benignant thou shalt spread his pall, Shalt kindly weep his early fall; And Spring's first violets shall bloom, Reared by thee around his tomb. Sweet Minstrel, here, though care-infected Too sure the poet's laurels die, Though oft by such sad scenes dejected Columbia's Genius heaves the sigh;· Think not thy border Muse, neglected, Even here shall pass unhonoured by. No, in thy praise one son of song, Ere yet he leaves the vocal throng, Though low his voice, unknown his name, Among the favoured sons of fame, Shall, trembling, strive to tune the lyre, And catch one spark of heavenly fire. Oh! could he sweep like thee the wire, And notes of softest tune inspire,

He'd boldly echo back again,

Thy feeling, wild romantic strain: Then sounds so soft, so loud, and clear, Should break on thy enraptured ear, That thou should'st think the gales of even, Came freighted with the songs of heaven. And as he poured the deathless strain, Self-kindling with a rapture holy, He'd proud repel the cold disdain Of wretches born to wealth and folly. Yet though no bright, no dazzling ray Of genius round his pencil play, Still shall thy glowing strain impart A joy to sooth his troubled heart. When Fancy sees thy" champions proud," Meet like the "bursting thunder cloud." Scarce can that heart restrain a sigh, Amid the battle's storm to die.

And when in Cranstoun's noble mind, He sees the "courtly Baron bold," By towering valour love-refined, His Margaret's fond affection hold, He sighs to think those days are o'er, And knightly feats can charm no more. When Clara's image blooming breaks Upon his mind, and fondly wakes His soul to scenes so deeply traced, In colours ne'er to be effaced; He'll think upon his early youth, And his own Stella's matchless truth; Who seven long years, besieged by fiends In human shape, in guise of friends, Though thick malignant scandal flew, Still own'd her Henry just and true. When victor in the evening fight, Stands famed de Wilton's injured knight, When vengeance raised the flaming brand And scarce he stays his lifted hand,

She'll see her Henry in the one
Who spared the guilty Marmion.

For joys like these, much honoured Scott,
Accept this strain, ah, scorn it not,
Accept the tribute of a youth,
Unskilled in flattery's art,

It bears, howe'er in sounds uncouth,

The homage of a feeling heart,

Traced in the sacred characters of truth.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

ADDRESS TO

The foreign plant-" Forget me not,"
Blossom'd in Autumn's sunny hour,
Transplanted to my native cot,

It bloom'd a parlour-window flow'r.
Its clust'ring buds their fragrance drew
From tender Friendship's fost'ring care,
And gem'd with Pity's sparkling dew,
The sweet exotic flourish'd fair.
When dark November's chilling show'r,
Deepen'd the forest's gloomy shade;
I saw the angry tempest low'r,

And, oh! I fear'd my plant would fade.
Oft as its verdant, glossy leaves,

With gentle hand, was lightly press'd;
The charm, that fairy-fancy weaves,
Clings to my vacant, aching breast.
The sun has left its parting beam,
And tipp'd with gold the distant hill:
Its roseate tints, but faintly gleam,
And all the Autumn gales are still.
The Muse, with timid, anxious eye,
Now, glances o'er her lov'd retreat;
And Hope exhales a trembling sigh,
From buds so frail, and bloom so sweet.

HENRY.