lived too long in the gorgeous east' myself, not to have had my fancy weaned from the visions of imperial splendour, which were formerly united with its name; but if I still entertained the most luxuriant ideas which have ever been conceived of its magnificence by romancers, I should say that it could never be more worthily bestowed than upon you. Proud shall I be to produce you there. Are you willing to venture with me? Your fine constitution would endure the climate; and a few years now would advance me rapidly. My health is quite restored, and I am thoroughly seasoned too. Shall we try it?" Laura yielded to what she saw was his desire, and sailed with him for India a few weeks after their marriage, and still resides there, one of the most honoured, as well as best loved, of wives. F. G. TO EUPHEMIA. BY THE REV. JAMES WHITE. THINE eye is not a starry light No marble lends its hue to deck The dazzling whiteness of thy neck, Thy form is not some poet's dream, Maids who are form'd of dreams and flow'rs But glitter in romances. But thou to me art dearer far Than rose, or dream, or brightest star Through heaven's clear azure stealing; For, dearest in that heart of thine Three gentle powers have fixed their shrine, Love, Purity, and Feeling. THE BED. BY MARTIN ARCHER SHEE, ESQ. R. A. PEACE to his bones, the first who spread Refuge of sickness, toil, and woe! Where still our welcome's warm: Whether with costly curtains closed, May bless his stars and chuckle. N Nay, monarchs, in their nightcaps, own The bed's much easier than the throne They're doom'd to sit and sigh on : And well may all the world agree, That poorest of the poor is he Who has no bed to lie on. When sick of follies that confound us, What comfort then, in bed reclined, To lose awhile the sense of pain, And when rough winter, in his reign, And whistling through each door, In slumber's cot secure. Yet then will anxious thoughts molest, With generous feelings warm; To think what hapless wretches roam, And bide the pelting storm. Then, too, if haply on the wave, Some much loved friend, disaster'd, brave The perils of the hour, How sinks the heart at every blast! While shuddering fancy views aghast, The angry ocean's power. Yet he's a ninny who supposes To rest, in vain Suspicion tries; Whom some proud beauty scorns: |