As soft the woodland songs are swelling Muse-for that hour to thought is dear, To me through every season dearest, A quenchless star for ever bright; Alone in wood, by shore, at sea, THE DEAD FRIEND. SOUTHEY. Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate The form that once was dear; Feed not on thoughts so loathly, horrible The Spirit is not there That kindled that dead eye, That throbb'd in that cold heart, That in that motionless hand The Spirit is not there! It is but lifeless, perishable flesh That moulders in the grave; Earth, air, and water's minist'ring particles Now to the elements Resolv'd, their uses done! Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, The Spirit is not there! Often together have we talk'd of death- All doubtful things made clear; To view the depths of Heaven! O!-thou hast first Begun the travel of Eternity- And think that thou art there, Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee- To watch the friends we lov'd- Sure I have felt thy presence, thou hast given Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pureWe did not err; Our best affections here, They are not like the toys of infancy- Oh, if it could be so, It were indeed a dreadful thing to die! Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, But in the lonely hour, But in the ev'ning walk, Think that he companies thy solitude; Think that he holds with thee And tho' Remembrance wake a tear, FROM THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. WILSON. Frankfort and Wilmot, two naval officers. Wil. Ir is the Sabbath-day-the day of rest. Frank. O unrejoicing Sabbath! not of yore Did thy sweet ev'nings die along the Thames Thus silently! now every sail is furl'd, The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand, And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty, River of a desert lately fill'd with joy ! O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone The air is clear and cloudless as at sea Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, And not one single wreath of smoke ascends Above the stillness of the towers and spires. How idly hangs that arch magnificent Across the idle river! Not a speck Is seen to move along it. There it hangs, Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky. Here, on this very spot where now we rest, Oft pass'd across my soul, and I have heard it Steal in sad music from the sunny calm. [A miserable-looking old man has come up to Old Man. Know ye what you will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk through long, long streets, You will hear nothing but the brown-red grass * * * And let the Pest's triumphal chariot Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along And onwards urg'd by a wan meagre wretch, Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. years; And many a rosy visage smiling still; Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair. FROM ANSTER FAIR. TENNANT. The Morning of the Fair described. I WISH I had a cottage snug and neat The bright-gown'd Morning tripping up her side; The saffron-elbow'd Morning up the slope Up heav'n's blue causeway, of her beams pro- |