Sunday Times. We are told that the poem was found in the cottage of a tippling gardener in the United States, and that it had not only won him from the noisy tap-room to his own domestic hearth, but that the judicious distribution of this poem in the proper locales did real good, for the argument was understood, and went home to the hearts of every tippling American who either heard or read it."

THE NEGRO'S REFLECTION.

JOHN JONES. FROM "HOME, AND OTHER POEMS," 1841.

HAS the white man, whom our vigour

Daily keeps in pomp and state,
Aught beyond his pride and rigour,
To confirm him truly great ?

O, that I could see some wonder
Done by this pretended god!
Can he wake the sleeping thunder,
Or restrain it with his nod?

Can his voice control the ocean,

When huge billows lash the strand ?-
When hills tremble with commotion,

Will they cease at his command?

When the face of morn is bright'ning

Can he quench yon fiery star?— Can his arm arrest the lightning Can it check the aèrial war?

Would the flames or waters spare him, More than Afric's sable crew?Would the lion pause to tear him, Though he boast a whiter hue?

Is he never prone to sickness,Does he claim no soothing care? Is his soul exempt from weakness,— Dwells no imperfection there ?

Does he not, like Negroes, startle
At the awful frown of death ?-

Is his body found immortal,

Does it not resign its breath?

Yes! he's frail as those he urges !

Men, who to his yoke conform, Rouse !-remember when he scourges,

That he's but a fellow-worm !

LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

JOHN MALCOLM. FROM THE BUCCANEER AND OTHER POEMS," 1824.

HE's gone! the glorious spirit's fled !

The minstrel's strains are hush'd and o'er,

And lowly lies the mighty dead

Upon a far and foreign shore.

Still as the harp o'er Babel's streams,

For ever hangs his tuneful lyre,
And he, with all his glowing dreams,
Quench'd like a meteor's fire!

So sleeps the great, the young, the brave,
Of all beneath the circling sun,
A muffled shroud-a dungeon-grave—
To him-the Bard, remain alone.
So, genius, ends thy blazing reign-
So mute the music of the tongue,
Which pour'd but late the loftiest strain
That ever mortal sung.

Yet musing on his early doom,

Methinks for him no tears should be,

Above whose bed of rest shall bloom
The laurels of eternity.

But oh! while glory gilds his sleep,
How shall the heart its loss forget?
His very fame must bid it weep,
His praises wake regret.

His memory in the tears of Greece
Shall be embalm'd for evermore,
And till her tale of troubles cease,
His spirit walk her silent shore.
There e'en the winds that wake in sighs,
Shall still seem whispering of his name;
And lonely rocks and mountains rise
His monuments of fame.

But where is he ?-ye dead-ye dead,
How secret and how silent all!
No voice comes from the narrow bed-
No answer from the dreary pall.

It hath no tale of future trust,

No morning beam, no wakening eye,
It only speaks of "dust to dust,"
Of trees that fall-to lie.

"My bark is yet upon the shore,"
And thine is launched upon the sea,
Which eye of man may not explore,
Of fathomless Eternity!

Perchance, in some far-future land

We yet may meet-we yet may dwell;

If not, from off this mortal strand,

Immortal, fare thee well!

BALLAD.

MRS. CHARLES GORE.

He said my brow was fair, 'tis true ;-
He said mine eye had stolen its blue
From yon ethereal vault above!
Yet still-he never spake of love.

He said my step was light, I own;
He said my voice had won its tone
From some wild linnet of the grove !
Yet still-he never spake of love.

He said my cheek look'd pale with thought, He said my gentle looks had caught

Their modest softness from the dove!

Yet still-he never spake of love.

He said that bright with hopes divine The heart should be to blend with mine;

Fix d where no stormy passions move!

Yet still-he never spake of love.