not gone by. They outlived Ann Yearsley, the milkmaid— sprung out into new life and beauty, under the training of Thomas Little, the amorist,-and, finally, were overlaid in the nursery of Edward Hovel Thurlow, the Peer. But we must have them : ΤΟ The torch of mind, that lights my clay, That e'er it warm'd an earthly frame. But if, as early hopes foretold, (And early hopes are cherish'd long) Thou wilt not grieve, my gentle friend, Upon the couch of pain to tend, And lighten sorrow's lonely gloom. Yet, fear no flatterer's voice in me I would not wrong, with pompous praise, The simple violet takes no thought When breathing forth her odours rare ; FRAGMENT. I am all alone by my silent hearth, I am all alone, and my heart is sore With thinking of days that are past and o'er. I sit and watch the stately trees, As they roll and murmur to the breeze, My thoughts are wandering fast and wide, TO A GREAT COAT, After travelling in it the greater part of a very inclement day. Thanks, coat! and thou, blue kerchief, too- And send you down to fame together. In summer time, obliging pair! I might have scorn'd your offer'd love, And joyous sunshine laugh'd above. And snow came feathering thro' the air, 'Tis thus, in boyhood's witless hour, But when our rising passions move, We feel our want of woman's love, And know for what our nature made us. FRAGMENT. Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past, And the cloud on my heart is dissolv'd at last; Spirit of Poesy, come from above, Come, on the wings of nature and love! Come, while the yellow light streams thro' the pane, And the air is fresh with the morning rain, And the wind is up with its sweet wild voice, Like a song of sorrow that bids us rejoice. Come 'mid fancies gathering fast, 'Mid thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the past; Oh! come to me now! 'tis thy chosen hour, And the spirits of evil no longer have power! But here is something refreshing and exciting. Two more Enigmas from Vyvyan himself. Why does not Vyvyan ad vertise a Reward for the best solutions ?-like the "Ladies' Diary," or the "Youth's Pocket book?" Really Vyvyan's are the best Riddles extant-he is himself a Riddle : ENIGMAS. A Templar kneel'd at a friar's knee; With curling locks, and forehead high, And flushing cheek, and flashing eye; And the Monk was as jolly and large a man Or called for a contribution; As ever read, at midnight hour, Ordain'd for a peasant the penance whip, "Oh, Father! in the dim twilight "I rent my victim's coat of green ; 66 My son! my son! for this thou hast done, Though the sands of thy life for aye should run," 66 The merry. Monk did say ; Though thine eye be bright, and thine heart be light, Blue devils all the day." The thunders of the Church were ended, The Indian lover burst From his lone cot by night ;- In hearts by Passion nurst, Oh! who shall quench the light? The Indian left the shore; He heard the night-wind sing, And curs'd the tardy oar, And wish'd that he could soar, The blast came cold and damp, I lent my lingering lamp, As o'er the marshy swamp He paddled his canoe. What Murray!-my old true friend of the Muse! I am sure thy graceful rhymes need no recommendation; so here they fly as fast as the mail will carry them, to the immortality of the Quarterly Magazine: FAREWELL. Farewell! farewell! that word of sever'd hearts Hath seldom been to me a sadder sound. A stranger from thy home of peace departs, Yet all he quits to him is holy ground. I feel the sanctity of love around, Domestic love and quiet tenderness; Through the green lanes no longer shall I roam, Watch thy small hands the cheering leaf infuse, * Le Nouveau Tableau de Famille. Not soon shall I forget our darkened cell, The sun sank down unclouded, and the breeze We paused, and listened with a smile and sigh And dim the stars were twinkling: and the eye From whispering winds and leaves, and evening's shadowy hue. And Thou, with whom in twilight walk I strayed, And this shall be my solitary pleasure Farewell! the smile of peace-the laugh of mirth,— To many a kindly thought had given birth, Which shrunk from utterance, till I breathed them now. Which calls up happy dreams from memory's haunted cell. |