Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why? 
  —­Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:—­
Of what disorder did, she die? 
  —­Lord, sir! of none—­she ran away.

TO MARGARET JANE H——­,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE.

Thou art indeed a lovely flower,
And I, just like the fleeting hour,
Which few will heed on folly’s brink,
So rarely deigns the world to think. 
Yet, ere I go, child of my heart—­
One faithful offering I’ll impart
To thee—­thy parents’ sole delight: 
To me—­an angel, pure as light. 
Sent on this earth to cheer and bless,
Like sunbeam in a wilderness,
With fascination’s form and face,
And all the charms that please and grace. 
A guileless heart, a lovely mind,
A temper ardent, yet refined,
And in the early dawn of youth,
Taught to love honour, faith, and truth.

Ah! these—­when all the transient joys
Of idle life, when all its toys
Shall fade like mist before the sun,
Yet, ere thy little day is done,
Shall give that calm, that true delight,
Which gilds the darkling hues of night,
The sunset of a well spent day,
A glorious immortality!

ON READING THE POEM OF “PARIS.”

BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M.

Author of “The Angel of the World,” “Sebastian,” &c.

By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth,
  (While loud without the blast of winter sung),
Now thrill’d with awe, and now relax’d with mirth,
  Paris, I’ve roam’d thy varied haunts among,
Loitering where Fashion’s insect myriads spread
  Their painted wings, and sport their little day;
Anon, by beckoning recollection led
  To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE,
Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek
Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak,
And to her horrent eye came passing on
Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone,
  When Rapine yell’d o’er his defenceless prey,
As unchain’d Anarchy her tocsin rung,
  And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay!

Oh! thou, thus skill’d with absolute controul,
Where’er thou wilt to lead th’ admiring soul,
Gifted alike with Fancy’s train to sport,
And tread light measures in her elfin court;
Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone,
Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne: 
Whate’er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell,
Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell;
In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night
With pomp and music, revelry and light,
Or where, unwept by Love’s deploring eyes,
In the lone Morgue, the self-doom’d victim lies—­
Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim,
To mark Religion’s reverend Martyr, him
Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer,
His fellow victims torpid with despair,
Thrill’d by his piercing tones, his beaming eye
Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die!