Her snowy Bosom's gentle swell,
Where nestling Loves delight to dwell;
And dimly, in the Streamlet's breast,
By Zephyr's dimpling kisses prest,
Is character'd to Fancy's eye,

Her playful Smile's strange witcherie..

Thus, tho' by Fate compell'd to rove
Far absent from the Maid I love,
Kind Fancy's magic sun-beams pour
A gleam of gladness on the hour,
The clouds dispelling that oppress
My inmost heart with heaviness.

And oft the Sprite with shapings sweet
Delights to shadow a retreat,
Embosom'd in some cottaged glen,
Far from the sordid cares of men.
See! round the porch green ivies twine,
In clust'ring union with the vine;
And from the chimney, trailing high,
A little smoke just stains the sky.

E'en now within

my

reed-roof'd cot,

The world forgetting and forgot,
Methinks I feel thy bosom prest
Against my highly-beating breast:
Methinks my lips with rapture dwell
On thy ripe lips nectareous swell,
And now delirious transports dart

Thro' pulse and nerve, thro' brain and heart,
And now exanimate I lie,

In the soft trance of extacy.

Ah! Sarah-Sarah! must I find

These dreams but phantoms of the mind!
These smiling visions but the brood

Of Fancy, in her magic mood!

J. G.

The MAD WOMAN.

The circumstance on which the following Ballad is founded, kappened not many years ago in Bristol.

The Traveller's hands were white with cold,
The Traveller's lips were blue,

Oh! glad was he when the village Church
So near was seen in view!

He hasten'd to the village Inn,

That stood the Church-door nigh—

There sat a Woman on a grave,
And he could not pass her by.

Her feet were bare, and on her breast
Thro' rags did the winter blow,

She sat with her face towards the wind,

And the grave was cover'd with snow.

Is there never a christian in the place,
To her the Traveller cried,

Who will let thee, this cold winter time,
Sit by his fire side?

I have fire in my head, she answered him, I have fire in my heart also;

And there will be no winter time

In the place where I must go!

A curse upon thee, man,

For mocking me she said;

And he saw the woman's eyes, like one
In a fever-fit, were red.

And when he to the inn door came,
And the host his greeting gave,
He ask'd who that mad woman was
Who sat upon the grave.

God in his mercy, quoth the host,
Forgive her for her sin;

For heavy is her crime, and strange
Her punishment hath been.

She was so pale and meagre-ey'd,
As scarcely to be known,

When to her mother she return'd
From service in the town.

She seldom spake, she never smil'd,
What ail'd her no one knew,

But every day more meagre-pale,
And sullen sad she grew.

It was upon last Christmas eve,
As we sat round the hearth,
And every soul but Martha's
Was full of Christmas mirth.

She sat, and look'd upon the fire
That then so fiercely shone,

She look'd into it earnestly,

And we heard a stifled groan.

And she shook like a dying wretch In a convulsive fit;

And

up she rose, and in the snows, Went out on a grave to sit.