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The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well
His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds,
Low worldly clouds, upon Affection's star:

He sought to clear them—what was toil, that led
To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth!

There's music in that bower, where the wild rose
Has clung about the ash,-such plaining tones
As the winds waken! There a harp is breathing,
And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived
Upon those melancholy sounds;—her head
Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings,
And the gold shadows of her long hair veil
The white hand which almost unconsciously
In melody is wandering. That fair hand
Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses;
That cheek proclaims the history of the heart-
Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth
Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace
Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet
You scarce might call it sorrow; and that smile
But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft
And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become
A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still
In the so lonely but so quiet grave.

Yes, she is dying! Though so young, and fair,
Her days are numbered; and if e'er her cheek
Wears the rich colour it once had, 'tis but
The sad and lovely herald of decay,

The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb.
(Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved,
Could but ill brook the many trembling fears
That absent love must know. Her fate was like

A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one,

Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's gone.)

She is within his arms, and they have met!

Evelin and Elizabeth? Yes. A flush

Of beautiful delight is on her face;

He clasps her silently, and his dark eye

Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth
A life of smiles!-At length he gently says,
'Elizabeth, my own love!'-It was heaven

To think that she again could hear him breathe
That dear dear name! She answereth not, but lies
Upon his bosom motionless. He looks

On her sweet face-'tis fixed and pale in death!
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

PARTING.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

No, never other lip shall press

The plighted one where thine hath been;

Nor ever other bosom press

The heart whereon thy head did lean.

Oh, never, love! though after this

Thy smile perchance no more

The very memory of that bliss

Shall keep me sacred all to thee.

see,

Farewell, farewell! in woe or weal,

Though worlds may interpose to sever,
And the world's law,' I wildly feel,
Thy heart and mine are one for ever!
Farewell! the ripe tear fills mine eye-
My very inmost soul is riven!
After such pang 'tis light to die-

Matilda, we shall meet in heaven!
Literary Gazette.

THE BATTLE OF ROSLIN.

HARK!-'twas the trumpet rung !—
Commingling armies shout!
And, glancing far these woods among,
The wreathing standards float!

The voice of triumph, and of wail,
Of victor, and of vanquished, joined,
Is wafted on the vernal gale;

And Echo hath combined

Her mimic tones, to breathe the tale
To every passing wind.

For Saxon foes invade

A proud, but kingless, realm;
Oppression draws her crimsoned blade
To ruin, and o'erwhelm :-
"Tis Confray, on destruction bent,
From Freedom's roll to blot a land,
By England's haughty Edward sent;
But never on her mountain-strand
Shall Caledonia sit content,

Content with fettered hand!

Not while one patriot breathes,-
While every verdant vale,
And mountain-side bequeaths

Some old heroic tale:

The Wallace and The Bruce have thrown

A trail of glory far behind,

The heart, to youth and valour known,
With giant strength to bind;
While even the peasant, toiling lone,

Recalls their deeds to mind.

The Cumin leaves not home

To tell a bloodless tale;

And forth, in arms, with Frazer roam
The flower of Teviotdale;

In Roslin's wild and wooded glen,

The voice of war the shepherd hears; And, in the groves of Hawthornden,

Are thrice ten thousand spears,

Bright as the cheek of Nature, when
May morning smiles through tears.

Three camps, divided, raise
Their snowy tops on high;
The flag unfurling now displays
Its lions to the sky.

The tongue of mirth is jocund there;
Blithe carols hail the matin light;
Though lurking death, and gloomy care,
Are watching, in despite,

Bright eyes that now are glancing fair,
Too soon to close in night!

Baffled, and backward borne,
Is England's foremost war!-
The Saxon battle-god, forlorn,
Remounts his dragon-car !—

A third time warlike cheers are raised
Beneath the noon's unclouded sun;
Upon the patriot band it blazed,
Saw thrice their laurels won,
And hung o'er Roslin's vale amazed,
As erst o'er Ajalon!

Blue Esk, with murmuring stream,
Romantic, journeys by

Between its rocky banks, which seem
To woo the summer sky,

With beechen groves, and oaken boughs,
And bloomy wild shrubs, fresh and fair;
While oft the pendent willow throws
Its locks of silver hair

Athwart the waters, which disclose

Its image pictured there.

Three triumphs in a day!

Three hosts subdued by one!
Three armies scattered like the spray
Beneath one summer sun!—
Who, pausing 'mid this solitude,

Of rocky streams, and leafy trees,-
Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,
Would ever dream of these?

Or think that aught might here intrude,
Save birds, and humming bees?

Roslin, thy castle grey

Survives the wrecks of time;

And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye,

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With pinnacles sublime :

But, when thy battlements shall sink,
And, like a vision, leave the scene,-
Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink,
On sculptured base shall lean

The patriot of the land, to think
Of glories that have been!

Blackwood's Magazine.

EPITAPH ON COWPER.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

HERE, where thought no more devours,

Rests the poet and the man;
Life with all its subtle powers,
Ending where it first began.

Stranger, if thou lov'st a tear,

Weep thee o'er his death awhile;
If thine eye would still be clear,
Think upon his life, and smile.

Monthly Mirror.

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