I reared thee as an eagle, "Lay down my warlike banners here, And bury my red sword and spear, And thus his wild lament was poured He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sighed; From the searching stars of Heaven he shrank- Literary Souvenir. HOPE. BY THE LATE HENRY NEELE. HOPE still will mount; no timorous fears And if she weeps, those short-lived tears So the gay skylark soars and sings, And even the dews that wet her wings, I CANNOT LOVE BUT ONE. BY THE LATE LORD BYRON. 'Tis done! and shivering in the gale, But could I be what I have been, "T is long since I beheld that eye As some lone bird without a mate, I look around, and cannot trace And I will cross the whitening foam, I ne'er shall find a resting place: My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Where friendship's, or love's softer glow, I go! but wheresoe'er I flee There's not an eye will weep for me, To think of every early scene Of what we are, and what we've been- But mine, alas! has stood the blow, And never truly loves but one! And who that dear, loved one may be Is not for vulgar eyes to see ;- I've tried another's fetters, too, With charms, perchance, as fair to view; "T would soothe to take one lingering view, ANASTASIUS TO HIS CHILD ALEXIS. BY THE REV. C. H. TOWNSEND. SLEEP, oh! sleep, my dearest one, Thy cheek is pillowed on my arm, I long to view thy beauteous face, To cheer me through the day's long toiling; Shaded by thought-in pleasure smiling: But, oh! this hour is most-most dear, I seek my only pleasures here, And fix on thee my every feeling ; And, oh! to guard thee thus from ill, Sleep,-thou canst not know the love, Which passes all of outward shewing; Much may my looks, words, actions prove, But how much more untold is glowing! And now, in silent loneliness, all I most express. A tender sadness melts my soul, And Memory, with her train attending, Seems all her pages to unroll, While Hope her airy dreams is blending. My tears are sweet; yet see not thou, Lest thou mistake their drops for woe. I think of all I am the while, Of guilt's dark hours, and life all blasted, And thou the only thing to smile, Upon the heart, so widely wasted: Oh! what can tell the rush of thought, With joy, grief, rapture, anguish, fraught! But with a thrill of keener pain, A shuddering dread has now o'ercome me, That dries those kindly tears again,— Oh! should the future tear thee from me! Ah me, ah me! I hold thee - now,Shall I ask ever-where art thou? I cannot call thee back again, Nor o'er again these joys be living, And thousand worlds were pledged in vain, To give what now this hour is giving; But I shall writhe in fruitless woe, pangs which-no, I do not know. With Yet, wherefore thus perversely run S |