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ELEGIAC STANZAS.

To the memory of Miss Cr, a beautiful young Lady, who drowned herself in a fit of insunity,

in the Kingsland Canal, occasioned by a disappointment in love.

FARE thee well, hapless maid! may the tall shady willow,

That early is doom'd to mourn over thy head, Be forgot, as the wave that love chose for thy pillow, Ah, cruel exchange for the wish'd nuptial bed! 'Twas a cruel exchange-Oh, how pain'd is reflection,

When memory tells us, what many did see, In the mind of her lover, each virtuous affection, "Was centred for her.-And from others was free!"

But the sun that rose bright from the emerald

Reason flew then the balance of thought like the willow,

(Oh lovers go pity the hapless resolve!) When mov'd by the breeze, bent the maid to the billow,

با

But virtue and true love the deed will absolve! There are hearts true to honour, to faith, love, and feeling, [own,)

(Which never the dull slaves to Mammon can And love is severest when fed by concealing

Love's victim!-such feelings were not thine alone!

Hence, guardians, who all but low interests are scorning,

On whom are lost virtue, and honor, and worthGo visit the tomb of poor Mary!—take warning, For love, disinterested love, dwells yet on earth!

FUGITIVE POETRY.

GUILDEROY.

"O stay me not thou tender mother,
One little hour is all I pray;
For now the bell has toll'd its last,
And lonely lies my Mary's clay."

"I'll go to see where they have dug Her grave beneath the moaning yew ; I'll go to pay my parting tear,

To kiss the turf, and bid adieu."

"O go not, go not from my side! You must not go my gentle boy; For now I have but only thee,

I have but now my GUILDEROY.

He waited for the hour of sleep,

He watch'd her eyes when they grew weary; Then stole away at dead of night Alone, to seek the church-yard dreary.

But who can tell a mother's love?

She follow'd o'er the printed dew; She saw him at the new made grave

Beneath the wildly moaning yew.

She heard him say his last farewell,

She saw the last tear leave his eyes: She saw him fall to kiss the turf,

But never, never saw him rise.

His mother's joy was GUILDEROY,

He lov'd a lady fair and true; Their love was crost while they had life, But now they sleep beneath the yew.

The turf is hallow'd where they lie,

Its holy power the living feel; There youths and virgins make their vowsAt Mary's tomb they come and kneel.