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
Chasing the gloom of sorrow's night,
Thy brow no snow discloses ;

No marble lends its hue to deck

The dazzling whiteness of thy neck,
Nor are thy lips twin roses.

Thy form is not some poet's dream,
Shadow'd at eve by crystal stream
By his fantastic fancies:

Maids who are form'd of dreams and flow'rs
Ne'er walk in this cold world of ours,

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
The swelling, soft, luxurious bed,
For man's indulgence given !
Still as I stretch each weary limb,
I cast a grateful thought on him,
And wish him rest in heaven.

Refuge of sickness, toil, and woe!
Sweet home of half our lives below!

Where still our welcome's warm:
Soft, downy dock, where sense repairs
The damage done by daily cares,
To brave again the storm!

Whether with costly curtains closed,
Of feathers or of flocks composed,
In camp, field, tent, or truckle,
The lucky bard that's shelter'd snug,
In his own nest, beneath his rug,

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,
And deafen'd by the din around us,
We seek a pause from care,

What comfort then, in bed reclined,
To ease the languid frame, and find
A short oblivion there!

To lose awhile the sense of pain,
To calm the fever of the brain,
That in life's waking hour
Is troubled by those darker dreams,
In which disturb'd ambition seems
To grasp at wealth and power.

And when rough winter, in his reign,
Comes rattling loud at every pane,

And whistling through each door,
How sweet, half dozing as you lie,
To hear the uproar of the sky,

In slumber's cot secure.

Yet then will anxious thoughts molest,
And pity throb in every breast,

With generous feelings warm;

To think what hapless wretches roam,
Without a shelter or a home,

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
That every bed's a bed of roses,
For idle's the conjecture:
The bachelor's from bliss debarr'd;
And he finds Hymen's rather hard,
Who hears a curtain-lecture.

To rest, in vain Suspicion tries;
The lover cannot close his eyes,

Whom some proud beauty scorns:
Guilt finds remorse upon his couch;
The slave will e'en in slumber crouch ;
And tyrants sleep on thorns.