The steps in youth I loved to tread,

Have sunk beneath the foot of Time; Like them, the daring hopes that led

Me, once, to heights sublime, Ambition's dazzling dreams, are o'er, And I may scale those heights no more!

And years have fled, and now I stand
Once more by thy deserted fane,
Nerveless alike in heart and hand!
How changed by grief and pain,
Since last I loitered here, and deemed
Life was the fairy thing it seemed!

And gazing on thy crumbling walls,
What visions meet my mental eye!
For every stone of thine recalls

Some trace of years gone by,—
Some cherished bliss, too frail to last,
Some hope decayed,-or passion past!

Ay, thoughts come thronging on my soul,
Of sunny youth's delightful morn ;
When free from sorrow's dark control,
By pining cares unworn,—
Dreaming of Fame and Fortune's smile,
I lingered in thy ruined aisle !

How many a wild and withering woe

Hath seared my trusting heart since then!

What clouds of blight, consuming slow

The springs that life sustain,— Have o'er my world-vexed spirit past, Sweet Kirkstall, since I saw thee last!

How bright is every scene beheld

In youth and hope's unclouded hours! How darkly-youth and hope dispelledThe loveliest prospect lours:

Thou wert a splendid vision then ;-
When wilt thou seem so bright again?

Yet still thy turrets drink the light
Of summer evening's softest ray,
And ivy garlands, green and bright,
Still mantle thy decay;

And calm and beauteous, as of old,

Thy wandering river glides in gold!

But life's gay morn of ecstasy,

That made thee seem so more than fair,

The aspirations wild and high,

The soul to nobly dare,

Oh where are they, stern ruin, say?—

Thou dost but echo-WHERE ARE THEY?

Farewell! Be still to other hearts

What thou wert long ago to mine;
And when the blissful dream departs,
Do thou a beacon shine,

To guide the mourner through his tears,
To the blest scenes of happier years.

Farewell! I ask no richer boon,

Than that my parting hour may be
Bright as the evening skies of June!

Thus thus to fade like thee,

With heavenly FAITH's soul-cheering ray
To gild with glory my decay!

Literary Souvenir.

THE VILLAGE DISPENSARY.

THE hour is come, the Leech is in his chair,
Throw wide the doors, and bid the first come in,
It is Dispensary-day! the narrow hall

Is thronged, as was Bethesda's strand of yore,
With sufferers of every kind and ailment;

Young, old, lame, blind, female and male, all met,
Prescient of succour, brooding o'er their woes,
And conning how they best may paint their pains!
With skilful air and aspect sharp, the Leech
Takes up his pen, turns o'er his book, and studies.
The first approaches with an awkward bow,
Letter in hand of printed warranty,

Signed by Subscriber, setting forth name, age,
And each et cetera. How now, Goodman Roger!
And is it you? Why, what ails you, old heart?'
'Pains in the back, an' please you.'

You have a family-a large one?'

'Is it so?

'Yes!'

'And used to labour?' 'Ay, from morn till night.'
'Fond of strong beer, too?' 'Mainly—drink three quarts.'
'Marry! I wonder not then at your pains;

But take you this; an' it stir not your ribs,
Why then there is no virtue left in rhubarb.
Begone! and see me our next public day.

Come for the next.-Who's here? Eh! damsel Alice, And not well yet?' 'No, Sir; my old complaints,— Tremblings, heart-burnings, want of sleep at night, Failure of appetite, and loss of spirits.'

"Turn round your face; why, ay, thou lookest pale; Hast thou a sweetheart?' 'La, Sir!' 'Nay, confess it.' 'There's Harry-'Ay! he keeps your company, Does he not?' 'Yes.' 'Then marry, and be well! Eh! more? Come, mother, tell me your complaint; Illness, no doubt.' 'I've had the Poticar.'

'Ay, and grew worse.' 'He gave me store of drugs, And when my gold was gone-' 'He sent you here.' 'Just so.' 'It is their customary wont;

They deluge you with drugs to drain your purse;
They find you ailing, and they make you ill,
Then all their study is to keep you so;

Until your veins and stores be emptied out;
Bloodless your body,-penniless your pocket,—
Which wrought, they send you for our gratis aid,
And leave us to undo what they have done.
So will it ever be, while they have sufferance
To act the Leech's part, who are his servants.
They needs must "vend their drugs," and make occasion
For their expenditure,—'tis their only gain.
Why do not our grave lawgivers ordain
These traders to their place;—their gallipots,
Their drugs, their philtres, and their pharmacy?
Nor let them traffic thus with life and health;
Marring their practice who could else mar them.
Begone! Take no more physic, make good meals,
Keep yourself warm, live temperately; duly
Avoid the "Poticar,"-then soon you'll want
No aid but what the cupboard can afford.
Shut to the doors, I'll hear no more to day;
Throw physic to the dogs,-for I am sick on't!'
Literary Magnet.

GORDALE.

THESE are thy fragments, thus in chaos strewn,
Magnificent though ruined world! nor power
Less than divine hath through the mountains hewn
The hideous chasm, or poised yon craggy tower,
O'erhanging, yet immoveable: whose brow
Far overhead bedims the noontide hour,

Making a sepulchre of all below.

An awe is on the place: a presence here

Incumbent broods, to which all creatures bow.

He comes! he comes! not riding on the sphere-
Not in the fire, the earthquake, or the wind-
But in the still small voice, the conscious fear,
The trembling hope, the deep transported mind :-
Such is His presence, in such temple shrined!

THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

It is currently believed in Scotland, and on the Borders, that he who has courage to rush upon a fairy festival, and snatch away the drinking-cup, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Eden-hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized, at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave. The fairy train vanished, crying aloud,

"If that glass either break or fall,

Farewell the luck of Eden-hall !"

From this prophecy the goblet took the name it bears-the Luck of Eden-hall. MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

ON Eden's wild, romantic bowers
The summer moonbeams sweetly fall,
And tint with yellow light the towers,
The stately towers of Eden-hall.

There, lonely in the deepening night,
A lady at her lattice sits,

And trims her taper's wavering light,
And tunes her idle lute by fits.

But little can her idle lute

Beguile the weary moments now;
And little seems the lay to suit

Her wistful eye, and anxious brow:

For, as the chord her finger sweeps,

Ofttimes she checks her simple song,
To chide the forward chance that keeps
Lord Musgrave from her arms so long:

And listens, as the wind sweeps by,
His steed's familiar step to hear :-
"Peace, beating heart! 'twas but the cry
And foot-fall of the distant deer."

C