For many a day we believed he would come

He was deep in our hearts-we were watchful and dumb; But he never return'd, and our tears flow'd at last." "God blesses the tears, mother, shed for the past!"

MOONLIGHT.

ROBERT ROSE, A WEST INDIAN OF COLOUR, DIED JUNE
19, 1849, AGED 43 YEARS.

OH! could I keep my spirits to this flow,
And from the world and all its jar recede!

The noisy revel, where danced smiling Woe,
That made the hearts of Pleasure's victims bleed,
Has vanish'd from the silent noon of night:
And now I feel, beneath the placid moon,
As if an angel would direct my flight

Up to yon sparkling realms and oh, how soon
Each wayward passion-wave has sunk to rest,

As if the time were come, when to yon home
H.mns of enfranchised saints announced me blest,-
As if, though not death-freed, there I might roa'u,
But no a thing of clay-the zephyrs near
Remind my sense, my soul is prison'd here,

KING EDWARD.

ROBERT ROSE, THE BARD OF COLOUR.

"MONTHLY MAGAZINE."

FROM THE

KING Edward march'd to Scotia bold,

In pomp and pride of war,

With banners to the wind unroll'd,

He moved, a baleful star;

And like a lion in his might,

He rush'd unto the deadly fight.

Great Solway's billows kiss'd his feet;

The plumed troop around

Heard not its murmuring echoes sweet,

Drown'd in the battle's sound,

Amid the cannon's thundering din,

Where Death did the chief triumph win.

Hundreds of stern, courageous men

Gasp'd 'neath his iron sway;

There, life's brief "threescore years and ten,"

Anticipated they,-

Biting the dust, mid parents' moans,

And widows' tears, and orphans' groans.

There he, the valiant, great, and proud
King Edward found his grave,-

Thy sand, fair Solway, was his shroud,
His death-dirge sang thy wave.
One man's ambition slew an host,—
Oh, God!-yet he was mourn'd the most.

TO THE STORM.

ROBERT ROSE.

THOU mov'st while Nature rocks beneath thy sway,

All fetterless and furious on thy way;
At the commotion of the boiling deep
The mariner from ocean-cradled sleep
Is startled, at the cold dark dead of night,
While far-off friends use on him in affright;
And yet hope cheers him on-stern joy is there,
The might of mountain-waves in wrath to are.
I pity more the wanderer, on shore,
Unfriended, shivering at the rich man's door,
Who hears the noise of merriment within,
'Rivalling the storm unruly in its din;
Who, in his wretchedness, no kind one nigh,
Groans in deep anguish, and then turns-to die.

MORNING.

ROBERT ROSE. FROM THE CHAPLET," 1841.

WEEPING in dew-drops for the sun's delay,
Mark yon fair flower reclining in the shade;
But morn's waked eye-lids fling a lustre gay
O'er its coy beauty, type of modest maid.
Aurora trippeth o'er the velvet lawn,

To nature's God ascends the matin lay,
O'er verdant pastures speeds the playful fawn,
And gladly hails the mantling blush of day;

Man is as joyous in hope's happy hour,

Ere furrow'd is his brow by care or age;

His opening lot like yon fresh budding flower,
His fancies pictured on life's golden page :
Lo! now the day-king noun's in glory bright,
And all things waking spring to life and light.

It is worthy of remark, that Robert Rose was the first, aud for some time the only person, who bought a copy of 'Festus," when that wonderful poem was published in Manchester. The printer of the book was a curious character, and when informed of the tardy sale, he sought out the purchaser, and congratulated him on his superior and singular taste.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

REV. WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY, BORN AT EXETER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, IN 1799.

AND this is death? how cold and still,

And yet how lovely it appears; Too cold to let the gazer smile,

But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;

And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never look'd so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there,

I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,

And that strong passion once rebel

That need not, cannot be suppress d.