THE NORTHERN STAR. WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND. "THE Northern Star Sailed o'er the Bar, Bound to the Baltic Sea : In the morning grey She stretched away 'Twas a weary day to me. 'And many an hour, In sleet and shower, By the light-house rock I stray, And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that's far away. 'The Church-yard's bound I wander round, Among the grassy graves; But all I hear Is the North wind drear, And all I see, the waves!' Oh roam not there, Thou mourner fair, Nor pour the fruitless tear! Thy plaint of woe Is all too low The dead, they cannot hear. The Northern Star Is set afar, Set in the raging sea; And the billows spread O'er the sandy bed, That holds thy love from thee! Newcastle Courant. THE INCOGNITA. WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. UPON her cheek the eye may trace That wins and then detains the sight. On her smooth brow her chesnut hair No impress of her seal is set. From those rich tresses to the view Within its pupil works a spell Which fills the mind, we know not why, With scenes on which our thoughts would dwell We gaze and grieve, and still we gaze, And mourn, that Time can never raise One flower like that his touch has broken. Leeds Intelligencer. B. B. W. TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. BY MRS. HEMANS. CREATURE of air and light! To chase the south-wind through the sunny sky? With Silence and Decay, Fixed on the wreck of dull Mortality? The thoughts once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone! They that have burst the prison-house are flown? If thou wouldst trace their way!— Earth has no voice to make the secret known. Who seeks the vanished bird, Far thence, he sings unheard, Yet free and joyous midst the woods to dwell. Take the bright wings of morn !— Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruined cell. Literary Gazette. WHERE IS HE? BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?' "AND where is he?" Not by the side No, no, the radiance is not dim, Neglected must his garden be, And seem to whisper, where is he?' His was the pomp, the crowded hall! His-riches, honours, pleasures, all Desire could frame;-but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands, Seemed proudly strong, and where is he? The church-yard bears an added stone, The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone, And death displays his banner there; The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been, no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he? New European Magazine. THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 'Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, 'And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.' Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din, |