The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andrè's plain, Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. 6 Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Knight's Quarterly Magazine. T. M. STANZAS. BY LORD BYRON. OH! had my fate been joined with thine To thee these early faults I owe, To thee the wise and old reproving They know my sins, but do not know "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For, once, my soul like thine was pure, Perhaps, his peace I could destroy, Yet, let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid, Yet all this giddy waste of years,— This tiresome round of palling pleasures,— These varied loves,-these matron fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures If thou wert mine, had all been hushed; Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,- For then it beat but to adore thee. But, now, I seek for other joys;— To think, would drive my soul to madness!— In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal, RECONCILEMENT. ALTHOUGH the tear-drop gliding Yet weep not at my chiding,- Let thy lip no longer quiver, Could my lips with scorn deceive thee, Were to part with peace and die. New Monthly Magazine. BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER. How many lift the head, look gay, and smile, WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, "Tis hard to smile, when one could weep; To speak, when one would silent be; To wake, when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast, But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come; And Time guides with unerring feet, The wearied wanderer home. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. COMPARISON. BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. MARKED you her cheek of roseate hue! A POETICAL SKETCH. THERE is a feeling in his heart, But ever dwells and rankles there:- Nor aught that holy men may say, A sickness of the soul, the balm Of Hope can neither soothe nor slake;— A glance of fire, a tongue of flame, Nor music's voice disarm ; A living sense of lasting woe, It was not always thus. He danced And snatched at joy where'er it chanced To blossom on his lonely way! Then Hope was young, and bright, and fair,He knew nor woe nor wasting care, But, innocently gay, Deemed-reckless of the debt it owed"Twould always flow as then it flowed! As Childhood ripened into Youth, Those feelings fled :-he drank the springs Of Knowledge, and the source of Truth, (What the sage writes the poet sings) And read in Nature's varying forms, Her shifting shades of sun and storms, |