A SKETCH. Is not this grove A scene of pensive loveliness?—The gleam And piercing through the gloom, seems like the smile Affection A melancholy record of this grove :— Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed; Of one more dear than life unto her soul; He twined him round the heart which beat with all The deep devotedness of early love, Then left her, careless of the passion which He had awakened into wretchedness. The blight which withered all the blossoms love Had fondly cherished, withered too the heart Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice, A melancholy, broken-hearted girl. She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Bright burning blushes,-torches of the tomb. Was wasting to the grave. Within yon bower Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth, The mountain-ash puts forth to welcome spring, Where nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom. A tinge of colour on her lovely face ; "Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill Had traced each charm of beauty but the blush. Serenity, so sweet, sat on her brow, So soft a smile yet hovered o'er her lips,— At first they thought 'twas sleep,-and sleep it was,— The cold long rest of death. Literary Gazette. L. E. L REPROACH ME NOT. OH! gentle shade,-reproach me not, However wild the revelry. For o'er the silent goblet, thou Art still remembered,—and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow; And I am lone, while all are loud. Reproach me not,-Reproach me not To think on joys which but have been ; Must haunt my life, and speed my fall! I think on thee,-I think and sigh,— That gives a loveliness to pain; The faults this wretched breast hath known! Had fate allowed thee but to live, Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shewn. Thy friends are fading from my sight, From this dark world,-since thou art gone! I need no friend to share my woe! I love to weep apart,-alone. Thy picture! It is life,—health,—love,— O'er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain, Came beaming from those eyes again! In my dark heart thy image glows, In shape and light divinely fair;— Youth sketched the form, when free from woes, In revelry 'tis still with me ; In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, My heart beats still the same to thee:- St. James's Chronicle. FROM ANACREON. THE girls with laughing faces, Your glass be your adviser. See there the locks we cherished, For me, nor know, nor care I, C. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. Nor a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. |