But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,

Her sweet no longer with her dwells; But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;

And I will sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none

POETS of old, when Love inspired,

Warm, naked Nature drew;

They saw her glowing charms-were fired, And sang of all they knew.

Not so their sons-a modest band!

Each, strong in virtue, draws

A lucid veil, with decent hand,

Χ

And paints her through the gauze.

PUFF OF A SELLER OF EAR OIL FOR DEAFNESS.

ANONYMOUS.

It's not for me, and indeed I know it,
To puff my own oil off, and blow it;
But it is the best, and time will show it.
There was Mrs. F.

So very deaf

That she might have had a percussion cap
Knock'd on her head without hearing it snap;
Well, I sold her the oil, and the very next day
She heard from her husband at Botany Bay.

THE LAUREL.

F. P. H.

THE Laurel takes an age to grow;
And he who gives his name to fate
Must plant it early, reap it late;
Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring,
So beautiful, yet perishing.

"And as the stars shone in the heavens they worhipped the spirit of the waters."

Indian Traveller.

SWEET spirit of the calm untroubled waters,
With what unfeign'd delight I view thee here;
Bright as the fairest flower of Persia's daughters,
Fleet as the fawn and timid as the deer.

And now I see thy sylph-like form ascending,
Amid the brightness of the silvery spray;

And as in rapture I am o'er thee bending,
Thy form of radiance shrouds the god of day.

And how again I see thee on the billow,

And once again I view thee on the blast,-
Careering on the lightning; with thy pillow,

The eternal thunder-cloud, behind thee cast.

I see thee rising from the depths of ocean,

Sporting in triumph on the billowy foam; Whilst each tumultuous wave, each wild commotion, Wafts thee still nearer to thy own bright home.

And now thou'rt fled! yet still the pleasing vision
Hovers around me with a radiant gleam;

But, oh! the splendour of each new transition,
Fades like the fleeting phantom of a dream.

Great spirit! whom I worship and adore,
Thou art my guide and my director here;

I long to join thee on a happier shore,
With the bright spirit of the 'waters clear,

To sing thy praise.

THE REMEMBRANCE.

ANONYMOUS. FROM "HUSBAND HUNTING, OR THE
MOTHER AND DAUGHTERS," 1825.

COME to my heart, thou pledge of love!
And while with life its pulses move,

In absence, peril, far or near,

Come to my heart, and rest thee here!
My days of youth are gone and past,
My manhood's hour is overcast;

My later destiny may have

A wanderer's life, a stranger's grave;
But whether eyes of love shall weep
Where thy pale master's relics sleep;
Or whether on the wave or plain,
This bosom shall forget its pain;

Yet where I rove, or where I fall,
To me thou shalt be all in all.

Come to my heart! When thou art nigh,

The parting hour is on mine eye;

I see the chesnut ringlets roll'd

Round the bright forehead's Grecian mould,

The ruby lip, the pencil'd brow,

The cheek s delicious April glow,

The smile, a sweet and sunny beam

Upon life's melancholy stream;

The glance of soul, pure, splendid, high—

Till all the vision wanders by,

Like angels to their brighter sphere;

And leaves me lone and darkling here!