REPROACH ME NOT.

OH! gentle shade,-reproach me not,
For hours of mirth too late gone by!
Thy loveliness is ne'er forgot

However wild the revelry.

For o'er the silent goblet, thou

Art still remembered, and a cloud, Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow; And I am lone, while all are loud.

Reproach me not,-Reproach me not
For mingling in the noisy scene!
Mine is indeed a gloomy lot,

To think on joys which but have been ;
To meditate on woes, which yet

Must haunt my life, and speed my fall!
Some minds would struggle to forget,
But mine would fain remember all.

I think on thee,-I think and sigh,-
Though thoughts are sad, and sighs are vain!
There's something in thy memory,

That gives a loveliness to pain ;
But yet, ah! gentle saint, forgive

The faults this wretched breast hath known!

Had fate allowed thee but to live,

Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shewn.

Thy friends are fading from my sight,
But from my mind they ne'er depart;
They leave behind them in their flight,
Their images upon my heart;—
And better 'twere that all should go

From this dark world,-since thou art gone!

I need no friend to share my woe!—

I love to weep apart,—alone.

Thy picture! It is life, health,-love,-
To gaze upon that eye, that cheek,—
Those lips which even in fancy move—
Which fancy teaches even to speak.
Oh! I have hung so long at night,

O'er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain,
That I have thought the living light

Came beaming from those eyes again!

In my dark heart thy image glows,

In shape and light divinely fair ;—

Youth sketched the form, when free from woes,
And faithful memory placed it there.

In revelry 'tis still with me ;

In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot,

My heart beats still the same to thee :—
Reproach me not!-Reproach me not!

St. James's Chronicle.

FROM ANACREON.

THE girls with laughing faces,
Still harp on age's traces;
And still they cry, grow wiser,
Your glass be your adviser.
See there the locks we cherished,
On that dear brow are perished.

For me, nor know, nor care I,
If they depart or tarry;
But this I know much better,
It suits me to the letter,
To prize the joys remaining,
Because those joys are waning.

C.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory:
We carved not a line,-we raised not a stone,
But left him alone in his glory.
Blackwood's Magazine.

VIRGIL'S TOMB.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

BENEATH the shelter of a mighty hill,

Whose marble peaks were garlanded with vine, And musical with many a sunny rill,

That thro' its purple, clustered shades did twine,

Bright as a summer serpent's golden spine,

Leaned a low temple, in the sweet, grey gloom,

Hoary with moss, like Age in calm decline.

With, here and there, a rose's lingering bloom,

Wreathed loving round its brow ;-that temple is a tomb!

There sleeps the Mantuan!

There the subtlest hand

That ever wakened Passion's lyre, is laid.

Oh! Master-genius of thy glorious Land!

When when shall Italy her tresses braid

With the bright flowers, that round thy forehead played ?
When flash to Heaven the ancient sword of Rome ?
Come from thy rest, and call her Mighty shade!
No! Vice, the worm, has fed upon her bloom!

Look not upon the slave; sleep, Virgil, in thy tomb!
New Times.

THE MOSLEM BRIDAL SONG.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

THERE is a radiance in the sky,
A flush of gold, and purple dye!
Night lingers in the west; the sun
Floats on the sea. The day's begun.
The wave, slow swelling to the shore,
Gleams on the green like silver ore;
The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow,
Are burning in the crimson glow;
Yet all is silence, till the gale
Shakes its rich pinions from the vale.

It is a lovely hour!-Though heaven
Had ne'er to man his partner given,
That thing of beauty, fatal, fair,
Bright, fickle,-child of flame and air;
Yet such an hour, such skies above,
Such earth below, had taught him love.

But there are sounds along the gale,—
Not murmurs of the grot or vale,—
Yet wild and sweet, as ever stole
To soothe their twilight wanderer's soul.
It comes from yonder jasmine bower,
From yonder mosque's enamelled tower,
From yonder harem's roof of gold,
From yonder castle's haughty hold!
Oh, strain of witchery! whoe'er
That heard thee, felt not joy was near?
My soul shall in the grave be dim
Ere it forgets that bridal hymn.

'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone
That woke me ;-visions! are you gone?

The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now Pour out the train, white veiled, like snow

H