LINES

WRITTEN UNDER A BUTTERFLY PAINTED IN AN

ALBUM.

I HAVE noted many a time
Authors skill'd in prose and rhyme,

Who a strict resemblance find

In this insect to mankind.

Often have I ponder'd on
That unfair comparison :
True, the butterfly is gay,
Vain, and idle in his play;

Nay, perhaps he thinks no less

Than a coxcomb of his dress;

True, he roves from bower to bower;

True, he kisses every flower,
Quitting that he most desired
For another more admired :
Never fixing, always changing,
Ever wandering, ever ranging.

So far is resemblance seen

Men and butterflies between.

But when man successful pleads,
Wide he publishes his deeds;
Trumpets forth the victim's shame,
Boasts his power, and blasts her fame;

While the fickle butterfly

Has this one good quality,

(Every thing save man has some)

Though unfaithful-he is dumb!

T. E. C.

SONNET,

FROM A MS. NOVEL,

BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.

THE moon shines sweetly in a sea of blue,
And if, its form oft changing in its flight,
Near her approach a cloud of fleecy white,
She paints its feathery edge with silver hue;
And, as I tread the dewy lawn, I view

The river, like a writhing snake, roll bright
Behind the ivied trees; while the red light
Streams yonder peaceful mansion's window through:
There sadly gather round the fire, and sigh,

The friends who cherish'd my youth's happy morn; For I to-morrow from their arms must fly :

And, when the moon next lifts her radiant horn, Within the bounding vessel must I lie,

With none to soothe my grief, and all forlorn.

GENEORA.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

"Dearer to me is thy love than thy life."

It was night! one of those calm, clear, and delightful nights, so rare in our clouded climate, so frequent in the sunny lands of the south. The uncertain, but luxurious light which the lamps of fretted silver, suspended from the painted ceiling of her room, shed over the chamber of Geneora, contrasted singularly with the pure and pallid radiance of the moon-rays, which fell in at the open window, and partially illumined the apartment. The wind, which at intervals stirred gently the folds of the silken draperies, came blended with the rich odour of the jasmine and citron flowers that filled the garden, and with the low melancholy murmurs of the Eolian harp: but the serene loveliness of the moonlight sky, the fresh incense of the fragrant blossoms, the sweet but mournful melody to which in her pensive moods she

was wont to listen for hours, all were alike totally disregarded by Geneora. Alone in that splendid chamber which wealth and genius had combined to render the very temple of luxury and taste; half reclined upon her couch, the exquisite beauty of her arms and shoulders veiled only by the profusion of her unbound hair, whose darkness heightened while it partially hid their surpassing whiteness; every feature of her face fixed in an expression of intense abstraction, every faculty of her soul apparently absorbed by some strong but concentrated feeling, pale, mute, and motionless, her parted lips bloodless as her cheek, Geneora wore rather the appearance of a matchless form, which owed its creation to the magic of the sculptor's touch, than that of a daughter of earth.

So young, so very beautiful, possessed of a princely fortune, of a proud name, the idol of the crowd, the arbitress of many destinies, and more, far morewedded to the only being who had ever interested her heart, what had she to do with sorrow? yet with sorrow she had made companionship: with sorrow? no; with despair!

Hours passed on their duration seemed to her like that of eternity. At length a slow languid step approached along the gallery :—she heard it not; or, if she heard, there was no change in her look or attitude which showed that she heeded it. After