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SENECA LAKE.

BY H. PICKERING.

EREWHILE, O beauteous lake! a minstrel stood
Upon thy sparkling brink, and touching soft
The lyre he loved so well,

Breathed forth undying strains.

And now the humblest of the tuneful throng
In fancy seeks, with artless aim, to blend
The murmur of thy waves

And warblings of his lute.

Translucent flood! within thy ever pure

And stainless breast, the heavens with wonder view As beautiful a heaven

As tranquil and serene.

And round thy ample brim extend smooth glades, And shadowy groves and flowers and pendent vines, And, mantled o'er with woods,

Soft undulating hills.

And though o'er thy bright marge no frowning cliffs Impend―no craggy mountains, as with wall

Insuperable, fence

Thee from the northern blast

Yet thou, disdainful, mock'st its utmost force,
And ruffian winter's rudest breath defiest:

Furious he sweeps along,

But may not chain thy wave.

And still with each return of spring thou smilest, And seest new beauties deck thy soft domain: And when from summer's gaze

The earth dejected shrinks,

Thou spread'st thy dazzling bosom to the sun: While pleased, anon, with autumn's rainbow tints And mournful shell, thou bidd'st

Thy waves mild music make.

In that soft hour when, leading up the day,
The infant dawn appears, and silvery dew
Is on each leaf, and thou

In snowy mist art wrapt

How have I stood, enchanted, to behold
The sun triumphant spring from out yon sea
Of verdurous boughs, and all

Thy charms again unveil!

And when upon his evening couch, the lord
Of light majestic sinks, and his last ray,
Descending, seems to melt

In thy unruffled flood

How have I pensive fix'd my eyes on thee,

And wish'd that on my breast a heavenly gleam

Might fall, and thus within

My soul as softly sink!

Yet if there be a more propitious hour,

'Tis when the moon from out the pearly east In chasten'd splendour beams,

And sheds o'er thee, and o'er

The tranquil earth, her mild and holy light:
A shadowy grandeur then invests the scene,
While through the willing mind

A pleasing sadness steals.

the eve

O fond remembrance! say, what boots it now To sing of absent charms? The morn, Return; but thee, sweet lake,

I must not see again!

Yet brighter eyes, and innocent as bright,
Shall long upon thy various beauties gaze;
And young and dewy limbs
Delight in thee to lave.

And science, haply, on thy banks shall rear
Her proudest domes; and, emulous of fame,
Bards, yet unborn, shall chant

In lofty verse thy praise.

THE LAMENT OF THE EMPRESS

JOSEPHINE.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

THE fearful strife of feeling now is o'er,
The bitter pang can rend my heart no more;
A martyr spirit now within me burns,
And love that spurns

All thought of self is waking, till its power
Can conquer e'en the anguish of this hour.

Yes! for thy sake I can resign e'en thee,
My noble husband! though there yet may be
Enough of woman's weakness, in my heart,
To bid tears start,

Yet not one murmur of reproach shall swell,
Amid the accents of my last farewell.

I loved thee in thy lowliness-ere fame
Had shed her halo round Napoleon's name;