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TO A WREATH OF DEAD FLOWERS.

Shewn to me by a Friend, on his return from Abroad, to whom I ̧ had given them, in bloom, on the eve of his departure.

PALE, fragile flowerets! I remember ye,

In all your pride of fragrant witchery;
Shunning broad day-light- like a bashful maid
To woo her lover closer in the shade

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Winging the breeze with perfume soft and sweet,
-A scented guide to lure the willing feet!—
But, now-with colours faded, odour gone,

No sweetness left for any other one,--
Ye have for me a beauty, passing all

Your pomp of purple, in your paler pall;
-Withered and silent vouchers for his truth,
Whose love has been the star light of my youth

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Braving the restless ocean;-for the sea,
As though it scorned the burden which the will
Of man had cast upon its glittering plain,
Murmured with sullen voice,-and seemed, awhile,
As it would fling the trace of earthly power

From off its glorious face, into the air,

Or whelm it in its own blue shining depths!
-One stands upon the deck, and, through the war
Of waters, watches where the blood-red sun
Sinks o'er his own far valley of the west,
And lights the distant home that never more
Shall come, with all its music-but in dreams!
Never shall vision rise upon his sight

Like that, this moment, o'er the billows fading,
Dim in the distance !-Onward goes the ship,
To meet the rising sun!-but on his soul
Has sunk-morn shall not lighten it-the night
Descending o'er his owu Hesperia !

The vessel glided onwards!-onwards still,
In music and in moonlight!-and the waves-

The little wavelets-lighted by the moon,
Play, like a thousand stars, upon its path!-
And the light penuon streams upon a breeze,
Winged with the perfume of far orange bowers!—
And birds go flashing by, like silver gleams,

Or ride, like snow-flakes, on the dancing waves !-
And sounds steal o'er the waters-and the breasts
Of many throb, with that delicious thrill
That marks the weariness and peril past;
And-where she rises-hail the glowing East,
-Fair as a new-born Venus from the sea!
And eyes look out, where hearts have gone before,
Through many a weary day and heavy night;
All, all-save one!-He leans upon the deck,
And, through the waters, sends his spirit forth,
To seek another "land"! For him—for him,
The ample world has but a single home;

All else a waste--of water or of plain,

What boots it which!—and the glad land-cry comes
Light to his ear--but heavy to his heart,
Marking the space he never must repass,
That hides the valley where he was a child!
-His mother's white-walled cottage—far away—
Lost-like the dove that wandered from the ark,
And never came again!-all this, and more,
A thousand thoughts-each one an agony-
Swell in his bosom !-and he turns to weep,
Amid the smiles that greet the lovely land,
Where he is but AN EXILE!

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE

LA TORRE.

1.

BEAUTIFUL is my nymph, if gay she spread

Her golden hair, dishevelled on the wind; Beautiful, if, in the disdain I dread,

Estranged, she turus from me her eyes unkind.

2.

Beautiful angry,-beautiful when glad,-
Beautiful cruel,-beautiful when shy ;-
But O! most beautiful, when, mute and sad,
She draws a gentle cloud o'er sun and sky!

3.

Beautiful, when she stills the storms and seas,
With that blue eye which only I adore ;
Beautiful, when, in pity for my peace,

She smiles as angels who were sad before.

4.

A nymph whose beauty, amiable and calm,
Cannot be fancied unless seen ;-nor, seen,

Can it be found in what consists the charm
Which sheds such interest o'er her angel mien !

W.

CONSTANCE.

A TALE.

"Notwithstanding, these citizens of Gaunt, in all their publike actions, have ever shewed more grosse folly than cunning, and no marvel; for they that carrie credit and authority among them, are for the most part wealthy men, of occupation, vnaquainted with waightie affaires, and little vnderstanding what belongeth to the gouernment of a state. Their cunning consisteth but in two points: the one, that they studie, by all means possible, how to weaken and impouerish their prince; the other, that when they have made a fault, and finde the partie offended too strong for them, they craue pardon with greater humiliation, and buie peace with larger gifts than any people in the world." Philip De Commines.

"HE is taken! the minion of the tyrant is secured! see, Constance! they are bringing him down the street," exclaimed Martin Jansens; "here, Brawn! Peterkin! my gown and wand of office! I must follow my father to the town house, where the burgesses will sit in consultation."

Constance Lindorf, left alone by the departure of her kinsman, approached the window with trembling

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