A FAREWELL. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. FARE thee well, land of my birth, That bound my heart to thee,-farewell! I leave no fond sympathy here With a love that scarce death could remove, Lift the sail. The lone spirit that braves Lift the sail-all remembrances sleep Denied to my chance-kindled fire Or victory, torn from the brow Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow,— Fare thee well, land of my birth, At last I have burst through the spell That bound my heart to thee!-Farewell! Literary Gazette. LINES, WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS IN AMPTHILL PARK. BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ. Out upon time.-LORD BYRON. BRIGHTLY the moon-beams slept amid For the alder rankled at the door, And thistles grew on the chill damp floor; And from the night raven's sheltering bough, Is eat by the silent tusk of TIME! O, how unlike their years of prime, By chieftains visited!-OUT UPON TIME! Where points his finger,-lours the storm; Crumbles the robes of the Priest of God; On the palace of kings and the peasant's cot, He turns his visage and they are not! Even lofty song and the magic of rhyme Yield at length to his power!-OUT-OUT UPON TIME! Leeds Intelligencer. Hart-Hai-Ta de frstar's battle burn! One kiss, sweet love-go pray for Spain- Whose soul may on that fatal plain, But linger for thy parting hymn !— THE VISION. I CALL upon thee in the night, Thou stand'st before me silently, Calm as the broad and silent deep, When winds are hushed and waves asleep. Thou gazest on me!-But thy look Of angel tenderness, So pierces, that I less can brook, Than if it spoke distress; Around thee robes of snowy white, With virgin taste, are thrown; And at thy breast a lily bright, It is a dream-and thou art gone, To muse on days when thou to me O lonely is the lot of him Whose path is on the earth, |