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On whom thy trembling confidence may rest,
Oh! come to Him, who in the husband's name,
Oh! may our little ring, within this larger found
WHILE bending o'er the letter'd page,
I muse on Science, Wisdom, Truth; I seek the tranquil mind of age,
But feel the glowing soul of youth.
Still from the converse rising, ever
One active talker-half as clever.
Might change my beating heart to stone, I fly from stoics, wits, and schools,
When love asserts me for his own,
Let Alexander's discontented soul
IMITATED FROM AN IRISH SONNET
BY ERANCIS SKURRAY A. N.
T'was near the white thorn on the brow of the vale,
I spy'd the first breaking of day;
To welcome the season of May,
Dear joy of my heart, my Emily rise;
More fair than the bright-beaming morn, More chaste than the rose-bud when weeping with dew,
More sweet than the blossoming thorn.
Thy looks are serene, as when clear'd by the sun
Shines bright the blue face of the skies;
Thy breath with the apple-bloom vies.
Thy hair, as the Raven's smooth pinions, is black;
Thy cheeks, like the ruby, are bright;
Thy breast seems to heave with delight.
My Emily rise, the sun's sprightly beams
Descend thy sweet face to salute; The heath all'its blossoms to greet thee reserves;
The vallies present their ripe fruit.
Thy lover, tho' timid, will snatch from the crag
The berries which creep on its side;
When shining in Autumn's rich pride.
My queen sweetly-smiling, oh! when shall we meet
On the banks of the murmuring flood ? Or sit in the cave that is covered with moss,
Or prattle of love in the wood ?
How long wilt thou leave me, my Emily, say,
Thy absence so cruel to mourn?
Unhappy till thou shalt return.
Whenever thou comest, thou welcome wilt come,
As summer preceded by frost:
As light cheers the traveller lost.
Robert Bourne, Esq.
BY MR. DAVID CAREY,
When the Warrior expires on his path of renown
The tears of a nation embalm his repose, Tho' Mercy ne'er hallowed and Pity disown,
The breast that ne'er felt her compassionate throet.
But when Worth, modest Worth, like a star beam that
fell, Is withdrawn to his own empyrean of light, How few, ah, how few! round his cold earthly cell
Heave the deep sigh of sorrow, and weep for his flight! * He possessed a mind richly imbued with soạnd learning and christian principles, joined to great and active benevolence, which could only be exceeded by that of his estimable friend Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edinburgh, author of “ the Lives of the Britisła Poets,” in whose house he had resided for some time, and who accompanied bim on his visit to Irelando