THE GAMESTER.

(By the Author of "Dartmoor.")

LOUD howl'd the winter storm,-athwart the sky
Rush'd the big clouds, the midnight gale was high;
O'er the proud city sprang th' avenging flash,
And tower and temple trembled to the crash
Of the great thunder-peal. Again the light
Swift tore the dark veil from the brow of night;
And, ere the far-chas'd darkness, closing round
As the flame vanish'd, fell still more profound,
Again the near-heard tempest, wild and dread,
Spake in a voice that might awake the dead!
Yet while the lightning burn'd—the thunder roar'd—
And even Virtue trembled-and ador'd—
Alone was heard within the gamester's hell

The gamester's curse-the oath-the frantic yell!
Fix'd to one spot-intense-the burning eye
Mark'd not the flash-saw but the changeful die!-
And, deaf to heaven's high peal,-one demon vice
Possess'd their souls-TRIUMPHANT AVARICE!

Loud howl'd the winter storm :-night wore away
Too slow, and thousands watch'd, and wish'd for day;
And there was one poor, lonely, lovely thing,
Who sat and shudder'd as the wild gale's wing
Rush'd by-all mournfully. Her children slept
As the poor mourner gaz'd—and sigh'd-and wept!
Why sits that anguish on her faded brow?
Why droops her eye?-Ah, Florio, where art thou?
Flown are thy hours of dear domestic bliss-
The fond embrace--the husband's-father's-kiss-
Bless'd tranquil hours to Love and Virtue given,
Delicious joys that made thy home-a heaven!
Flown-and for ever ;-love-fame-virtue-sold
For lucre-for the sordid thirst of gold;-
The craving, burning wish that will not rest,
The vulture-passion of the human breast-
The thirst for that which-granted or denied-
Still leaves-still leaves-the soul unsatisfied,
Just as the wave of Tantalus flows by,
Cheating the lip and mocking the fond eye!

Yet oft array'd in all their genuine truth,
Rose the sweet visions of his early youth;—
More bright-more beautiful those visions rise,
As cares increase, on our regretful eyes;
And when the storms of life infuriate roll,
Unnerve the arm, and shake th' impassive soul,

Then Memory, always garrulous, will tell
The glowing story of our youth too well;
And scenes will rise upon the pensive view,
Which Memory's pencil will pourtray too true!
Thus when Repentance warm'd his aching breast,
He turn'd him, tearful, to those scenes so bless'd,
And fresh they came,-a dear, departed throng,
Of joys that wrung the heart, by contrast strong;—
Lost, lov'd delights that forc'd the frequent sigh,
And chill'd the life-blood while they charm'd the eye!
Could he forget when first--O thrilling hour!
He wooed his Julia in her native bower?
Forget?-the tender walk-the gate-the cot-
The impassion'd vow,―ah, could they be forgot?
Sweet noons--sweet eves--when all-below-above,
Was rapture-and the hours were wing'd by love!
But chief one dear remembrance-one more bright
Than all, though cherish'd, rush'd upon his sight-
The morn that, blushing in her virgin charms,
Gave the wrong'd Julia to his eager arms!—
Ah, wrong'd,—for though Remorse full deeply stung
His bosom, to the damning vice he clung;
And she, poor victim, had not power to stay
The wanderer on his wild and desperate way;—
While round her, ever, sternly-fiercely-sweep
Views of the future,-gloomy-dark-and deep;