Have you not seen the lily's stem That my poor throbbing heart doth move. LINCOLN, APRIL 1811. J. C. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. FAREWELL, lovely land, where in youth I have sported, Ere sorrow and care taught my bosom to mourn : Adieu, native mountains, from you I'm departed, And my beating heart whispers no more to return. cheeks are the big tears of sorrow now streaming, O'er my And Nature resumes in my heart all her sway; In my eye every scene of my childhood is beaming, But from those lovely scenes I am far far away. Thou land of my forefathers! inust I then leave thee, And suffer ambition to tempt me to roam? In yon foreign land will affection receive me? Ör there shall I find what I leave-a sweet home? Ah! no: for misfortune my steps still attending, Will doom my 'lorn bosom to anguish and woe: Not a sigh, not a tear, on my ashes descending! Not a bosom to beat with affection's warm glow! MR. J. IRVING. TO A YOUNG LADY, Who asserted that no one above the Age of Thirty could be in Love. IN I. In youth's early dawn, can this gloomy opinion Possess my sweet friend, that the heart's so soon cold? Can she gravely maintain, that Love's mighty dominion No longer can sway us, when THIRTY is told? 11. Can she truly believe, that our life's dearest treasures, When their first tide is ended, no longer can flow? What is this but to say that the Spring has its pleasures, And that nought of delight can the Summer bestow? When our THIRTY is told, if the flame of affection IV. And let her not think that 'tis Fancy's suggestion question, But now feel we can love, when our THIRTY is told. SONNET. ON THE LATE DUCHESS OF GORDON. BY SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY, BART. Is then the bright expansive spirit flown, GORDON is gone; and we our loss bemoan; Remains there one, your frolic tribes among, Who can, like her, the sprightly hour prolong? Tell, ye gay circles, she to you was known! Happy, when others happy she could make, And none so well knew how! none knew so well The sweetest sympathies of life to wake, And all its cares and sorrows to dispel! High-minded, friendly, open, and sincere, SONNET. BY THE LATE JOHN LEYDEN, M. D. HARK! how the merry lark's loud carols ring, SONNET. BY THE SAME. In ridges green the peopled church-yard heaves, I love to mark a shapeless mossy stone |