SERENADE,

BY GEORGE FREDERIC BUSBY, ESQ.

BREATHE Soft, my lyre; in lowly-murmur'd strains
Recount my throbbing bosom's anxious fears;
Bid Hope's elysian whispers soothe my pains,
And tell Gonsalvo his Victoria hears:

And with what fond excess he loves her, tell;
How brightly, chastely, burns the flame divine:
Let not that gentle heart from love rebel,
But all its thrilling pulses answer mine.

How oft by Guadalquivir's vine-bower'd shores,
When purple Vesper slept in western skies,
I watch'd the steps of her my soul adores,
Tears my oblation, and my incense sighs!

While every glance from those celestial eyes,
And every radiant charm that met my sight,
Was cloth'd in such a soft, angelic, guise,

That love was mute and wrapt in dumb delight.

And sure the heart, that tenants that soft breast,
Must be as soft, as mild; and those dear eyes,
Whose azure lightnings murder'd all my rest,
The stars of love, will bid their vassal rise.

Those ruby lips, impress'd by Cupid's seal,
Shall breathe the amorous language of the heart,
And virgin blushes, virgin sighs, reveal

The melting joys love only can impart.

Then, folding in these blest, these rapturous, arms,
My soul's enchantress, and my bosom's queen,
That glowing paradise of heavenly charms
Shall fling its rich delight o'er every scene.

Whether to those inhospitable climes,

Where Nature sleeps in hyperborean chains, Or where his tropic throne Apollo climbs,

And pours his scorching fires o'er eastern plains,

I go Delight shall wave his wings around me,
Victoria's eyes shall melt the yielding frost,
Victoria's breath dispense refreshment round me,
And all the rigours of the clime be lost.

Nature's vicissitudes were nought to me;

With thee, my amulet, my shield from harm, My every thought should concentrate in thee, And every hour reveal some secret charm.

Sleep, loveliest daughter of my native Spain;
Ethereal visions gild thy balmy rest!
And when Gonsalvo meets thy glance again,
Receive his vows, and make thy lover blest.

Breeze of the night, on silent pinion fleeting,

Fan thou the couch where virgin beauty slumbers; Still'd be my throbbing heart's tumultuous beating; And cease, my faithful lyre, thy plaintive numbers.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY,

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

SEE, fairest among many fair,

Yon graceful Maid, with smiling air,
And cheek as bright as summer even!
Warm from the dance she seems to spring;
And the light gales above her fling

Her silken scarf, in floating ring,

Like rainbow in th' Autumnal Heaven.
One snowy arm she lifts to bind

The dark curls sporting in the wind;
And one half raised, as if to fly,

With fairy foot keeps equal measure :

Joy sparkles in her radiant eye;

Her light form seems to bound on high;
And motion snatches grace from pleasure.

Such the fair form: the fairer mind

"Tis not in Painter's art to bind.

That form with ever-changing grace
Flits like the borealis race

In variable spell:

That mind, like planet star, we trace
Bright and unchangeable.

Its own pure circle fixed to run ;
And Virtue the light-giving sun.

Ill it beseems the playful muse
Such grave unwonted theme to chuse !
She better loves her darts to try
At the wide mark of Prophesy,

Imp with gay plume the wings of Time,
And deal her spells in careless rhyme.
Her magic wand, my Maiden fair,
Has changed that sylph-like bounding air
To Matron softness, calm yet free,
Just such as ten years hence 'twill be.
She would not one dark ringlet shred ;
Nor fade one tint of native red;
Nor steal one lightning beam, that flies
Warm from Expression's cell-thine eyes;
Nor rob thee of the smiles that dart
From kindness' better home-thy heart.
But with those glossy locks she'd chain
One wedded follower to thy train;
Those native blushes still should flow
As brightly on their bed of snow,
But one alone should bid them glow;
Those powerful glances still should melt
Though only one their influence felt;,
Those smiles their sweet enchantment send
To charm the Husband and the Friend.

ON A ROSE.

THY rose, oh, Venus! blooms one fleeting day;
Her virgin leaves unfold and fade away:
She buds when morn in blushes lights the skies,
And as the flame descends, her beauty dies!

T. M. A. S.

JOHN THE BAPTIST:

A Prize Poem,

RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 1809.

HARK! through the desert wilds, what awful voice Swells on the gale, and bids the world rejoice? What Prophet form, in holy raptures led, The grey mists hovering o'er his sacred head, Prepares on earth Messiah's destined way, And hastes, the mighty Messenger of Day? Lo! echoing skies resound his gladsome strain, "Messiah comes! ye rugged paths be plain; "The Shiloh comes! ye towering cedars bend, "Swell forth, ye vallies, and, ye rocks, descend; "The withered branch let balmy fruits adorn,

And clustering roses 'twine the leafless thorn; "Burst forth, ye vocal groves, your joy to tell"The God of Peace redeems his Israel."

How beauteous are the feet of those who bear
Mercy to man, glad tidings to despair!
Far from the mountain's top, they lovelier seem
Than moonlight dews, or morning's rosy beam;
Sweeter the voice than spell or hymning sphere,
And listening Angels hush their harps to hear.

Roused at the solemn call, from all her shores
Her eager tribes, behold, Judæa pours!
Tho' scarce the Morn asserts her bashful sway,
And doubtful Darkness still contends with day,