And give to joy alone, the view
Of Britain's fame-on Waterloo.

Anon.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. Tis the tear through many a long day wept,

Through a life by his loss all shaded; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded.

Oh! thus shall we mourn,

and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve them; For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them!
And as buried saints have given perfume

To shrines where they've been lying ;
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying !

Moore.

O! LAND OF THE GODLY.

()! Land of the Godly, how lone and deserted !

Thy tribes wander friendless, thy glory is gone! Thy Prophets are silent—their glory departed, And hushed is the voice of the monarch of

song.

'Midst the towers of thy Salem the lone wolf is howling,

O’er the wrecks of thy temple the wild Arab strays, 'Mong the tombs of thy fathers the tiger is prowling,

As a dream we remember the fame of thy days.

No longer the sounds of rejoicing and gladness,

No longer the voice of thy harp thrills the ear ; Thy mirth is departed—thy joy changed to sadness Thy relic is ruin—thy fate is—despair!

Byron.

OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY?

Our fathers,—where are they?-and where

The prophets ?—from this mortal scene

Gone with the dream of things that were,

As if they ne'er had been ; Beyond the wanderings of the morn,

Beyond the portals of the day, Unto a land whence none return,

Qur fathers ----Where are they?

The vanished comet long deemed lost,

And absent for a thousand years,
Again, amid the starry host,
From darkness re-

re-appears.
Seas ebb and flow upon the shore;

Moons wax when they have waned away; But they who go, to come no more,

Our fathers,—where are they?

Thou sun, that light'st the boundless skies,

Where are the earth's departed gone?
Ye stars, to your all-seeing eyes,

Is the great secret known ?
Ye breathe not of their place of rest,

But roll in silence on your way,
And the lone echoes of the breast
Still answer, where are they?

John Malcolm, Esq.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away.
Yet still thy features wore the light,

Which fleets not with the breath,
And life ne'er looked more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide ;
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines,

Within their gentle tide.
So veiled beneath the simplest guise

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charmed all other eyes,

Seemed worthless in thy own.

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er had'st left that sphere ;

Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here.
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see ;
To live with them is far less sweet,

Than to remember thee-Mary!

Moore.

A SKETCH.

I saw her in the morn of life—the summer of her years, Ere time had stole a charm away, or dimmed her smile

with tears. The blush of morn was on her cheek—the tender light of

even

Came mellowed from her azure eye, whose sphere re

flected heaven.

I saw her once again, and still her form was young and fair, But blight was with her beauty blent—its silent trace was

there. Her cheek had lost its glowing tint-her eye its brightest ray, The change was o'er her charms, which says, the flower

must fade away