Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone

Ere it taught me the way to adore,

Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before?

And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,
It but fits it the better for bliss;

As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.

THE DEAD OF 1832.

BY R. C. SANDS..

Ob: 1832, æt. 33.

Oн Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,

The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war,

Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:

In crowds the good and mighty go,

And to those vast dim chambers hie :-
Where, mingled with the high and low,

Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!

Dread Ministers of God! sometimes
Ye smite at once, to do His will,
In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,

Those whose renown ye cannot kill!

When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banished from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return
Such lustre to the coming years?

For where is he*--who lived so long-
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,
And showed his fate, in powerful song,
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?

Where he who backwards to the birth
Of Time itself, adventurous trod,
And in the mingled mass of earth
Found out the handiwork of God? †

Where he who in the mortal head,t
Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace
The soul's vast features, that shall tread
The stars, when earth is nothingness?

Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre,§
Till round the world its echoes roll,
And swept, with all a prophet's fire,
The diapason of the soul?

Where he who read the mystic lore,||

Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;

And dared presumptuous to explore

Secrets four thousand years could keep?

* Goethe and his Faust. † Cuvier. Spurzheim. § Scott. Champollion.

Where he who with a poet's eye*
Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,
And made even sordid Poverty

Classic, when in His numbers glazed?

Where that old sage so hale and staid,†
The "greatest good" who sought to find;
Who in his garden mused, and made
All forms of rule, for all mankind?

And thou-whom millions far removed t
Revered the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.

He too-the heir of glory-where §
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!

Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!

But hark! a nation sighs! for he,||
Last of the brave who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!

They go-and with them is a crowd,

For human rights who THOUGHT and DID,

We rear to them no temples proud,

Each hath his mental pyramid.

All earth is now their sepulchre,

The MIND, their monument sublime—

Young in eternal fame they are

Such are your triumphs, Death and Time.

+ Jeremy Bentham.

* Crabbe.

§ The Duke of Reichstadt.

Adam Clarke.

Charles Carroll.

TO A LADY

WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

WHY blame old Sol, who, all on fire,

Prints on your lip the burning kiss;
Why should he not your charms admire,
And dip his beam each morn in bliss?

Were 't mine to guide o'er paths of light
The beam-haired coursers of the sky,
I'd stay their course the livelong night
To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.

Then let the dotard fondly spring,

Each rising day, to snatch the prize;

"Twill add new vigour to his wing,

And speed his journey through the skies.

ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.-King Lear.

THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed
Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn,
By what unseen and secret influence led,

Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?

The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine,
The hum of falling waters not more sweet,

I own, indeed, I own thy song divine.

And when next year's warm summer nights we meet, (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be

A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse
Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire?
Some old musician? or did'st take a course
Of lessons from some master of the lyre?
Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump?
Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full?
Art a phrenologist, and is the bump

Of song developed on thy little skull ?

At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute
Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute ?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song,

Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long Still night? With song dost drive away dull care? Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,

A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,

Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets ? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?"

Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore
Charmed with their songs till men forgot to dine,
And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore,
Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine,