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Were wildly changed. It was a dreadful night—
No moon was seen, in all the heavens, to aid
Or cheer the lone and sea-beat mariner :—
Planet nor guiding star broke through the gloom ;—
But the blue light'nings glared along the waters,
As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light
Some wretches to their graves.-The tempest winds
Raving came next, and in deep hollow sounds
Like those the spirits of the dead do use
When they would speak their evil prophecies-
Muttered of death to come;-then came the thunder,
Deepening and crashing as 'twould rend the world;
Or, as the Deity passed aloft in anger

And spoke to man-despair!-The ship was tossed
And now stood poised upon the curling billows,
And now midst deep and watery chasms-that yawned
As 'twere in hunger-sank.-Behind there came
Mountains of moving water,-with a rush
And sound of gathering power, that did appal
The heart to look on ;-terrible cries were heard;
Sounds of despair,—some like a mother's anguish-
Some of intemperate, dark, and dissolute joy-
Music and horrid mirth-but unallied

To joy; and madness might be heard amidst
The pauses of the storm-and when the glare
Was strong, rude savage men were seen to dance
In frantic exultation on the deck,

Though all was hopeless.-Hark! the ship has struck,
And the forked light'ning seeks the arsenal!-
"Tis fired-and mirth and madness are no more!
'Midst columned smoke, deep red, the fragments fly
In fierce confusion-splinters and scorched limbs,
And burning masts, and showers of gold,-torn from
The heart that hugged it even till death. Thus doth
Sicilian Etna in her angry moods,

Or Hecla 'mid her wilderness of snows,
Shoot up its burning entrails, with a sound
Louder than e'er the Titans uttered from

Their subterranean caves, when Jove enchained

Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies
Shocked at the' excess of light, returned the sound
In frightful echoes,—as if an alarm

Had spread through all the elements:-then came
A horrid silence-deep-unnatural-like

The quiet of the grave !—

Literary Gazette.

LINES

ON LEAVING LLANDOGO, A VILLAGE ON THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

SWEET spot! I leave thee with an aching heart,

As down the stream my boat glides smoothly on;

With thee, as if I were a swain, I part,

And thou the maiden that I doated on.

I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again;
That lowly church, calm promiser of rest;
Yon white cots, free from riches and from pain,
Fantastic gems upon the mountain's breast.

Fast, fast, thou'rt fading from my longing sight;
The next bold turn, and thou art gone for aye,-
A dream's bright remnant on a summer night—
The faint remembrance of a love gone by.

Farewell! and if Fate's distant unknown page
Doom me to wreck on Passion's angry sea,

I'll leave Philosophy to reasoning age,

And charm the tempest with a thought on thee.
Etonian.

K

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH-DAY

OF ROBERT BURNS.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the Bard compare,

Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong,

As ever child of air!

His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS,
For whim or pleasure; change!

He was not one, but all, by turns,-
With transmigration strange !—

The Blackbird, oracle of Spring,
When flowed his moral lay;—
The Swallow, wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play;

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The Humming bird, from bloom to bloom,

Inhaling heavenly balm ;

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The Raven in the tempest's gloom ;—

The Halcyon, in the calm;—

In 'auld Kirk Alloway,' the Owl,
At witching time of night;—
By 'bonnie Doon,' the earliest fowl,
That caroled to the light.

He was the Wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein ;-
At Bannockburn, the Bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train ;-

The Woodlark, in his mournful hours;
The Goldfinch, in his mirth ;—
The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth ;—

The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still;

But roused,-no Falcon in the chace
Could, like his satire, kill!—

The Linnet, in simplicity;
In tenderness, the Dove ;-
But more than all beside, was He
The Nightingale, in love.

Oh! had he never stooped to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had Devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise!

Peace to the dead!-In Scotia's choir
Of minstrels, great and small,

He

sprang from his spontaneous fire, The Phoenix of them all!

Sheffield Mercury.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

ERE sin could blight, or sorrow fade.
Death came, with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

WHO, standing on this rural spot,

With groves above, and fields around,
Would, pausing, e'er indulge the thought,
That armies thronged the lower ground?
Or image neighing steed, or fear
That trump or drum salute his ear!
Or think this leafy screen enfolded
A being of as tragic fate,

As lovely, and unfortunate,
As Nature ever moulded!

Traced like a map, the landscape lies
In cultured beauty stretching wide;
There, Pentland's green acclivities;

There, Ocean, with its azure tide;
There, Arthur's seat; and gleaming through
Thy southern wing, Dunedin blue!
While, in the orient, Lammer's daughters,
A distant giant range are seen,—

North Berwick Law, with cone of green, And Bass amid the waters.

Wrapt in the mantle of her woe,
Here agonized Mary stood,
And saw contending hosts below,
Opposing, meet in deadly feud;
With hilt to hilt, and hand to hand,
The children of one mother land

For battle come. The banners flaunted
Amid Carberry's beechen grove;
And kinsmen, braving kinsmen, strove
Undaunting and undaunted.

Silent the queen in sorrow stood,

When Bothwell, starting forward, said, 'The cause is mine-a nation's blood,

Go, tell yon chiefs, should not be shed!

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