not gone by. They outlived Ann Yearsley, the milkmaid— sprung out into new life and beauty, under the training of Thomas Little, the amorist,-and, finally, were overlaid in the nursery of Edward Hovel Thurlow, the Peer. But we must

have them :

ΤΟ

The torch of mind, that lights my clay,
May burn and die, a lonely flame,
Nor leave a trace behind to say

That e'er it warm'd an earthly frame.

But if, as early hopes foretold,

(And early hopes are cherish'd long)
My name should ever shine enroll'd
Among my country's sons of song ;

Thou wilt not grieve, my gentle friend,
That thou hast given thy youthful bloom

Upon the couch of pain to tend,

And lighten sorrow's lonely gloom.

Yet, fear no flatterer's voice in me

I would not wrong, with pompous praise,
The sweets which love unconsciously
Throws round each object it surveys.

The simple violet takes no thought

When breathing forth her odours rare ;
They came from heaven, they cost her nought,
And yet they gladden earth and air.

FRAGMENT.

I am all alone by my silent hearth,
No smile of love, and no voice of mirth;

I am all alone, and my heart is sore

With thinking of days that are past and o'er.

I sit and watch the stately trees,

As they roll and murmur to the breeze,
Or follow the clouds as they fleet and play,
But
my heart-my heart is far away.

My thoughts are wandering fast and wide,
Without an aim, and without a guide.

TO A GREAT COAT,

After travelling in it the greater part of a very inclement day.

Thanks, coat! and thou, blue kerchief, too-
Protectors kind 'gainst wind and weather,
I pay in song my debt to you,

And send you down to fame together.

In summer time, obliging pair!

I might have scorn'd your offer'd love,
When life was in the genial air,

And joyous sunshine laugh'd above.
But now, when wintry blasts prevail'd,

And snow came feathering thro' the air,
Ev'n ****** 's puns perchance had fail'd
To cheer me, hadst not thou been there.

'Tis thus, in boyhood's witless hour,
We mock at love's delightful tie,
And wonder what mysterious power
Grave man can find in woman's eye.

But when our rising passions move,
When sickness smites, or cares invade us,

We feel our want of woman's love,

And know for what our nature made us.

FRAGMENT.

Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past,

And the cloud on my heart is dissolv'd at last;

Spirit of Poesy, come from above,

Come, on the wings of nature and love!

Come, while the yellow light streams thro' the pane,

And the air is fresh with the morning rain,

And the wind is up with its sweet wild voice,

Like a song of sorrow that bids us rejoice.

Come 'mid fancies gathering fast,

'Mid thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the past;

Oh! come to me now! 'tis thy chosen hour,

And the spirits of evil no longer have power!

But here is something refreshing and exciting. Two more Enigmas from Vyvyan himself. Why does not Vyvyan ad

vertise a Reward for the best solutions ?-like the "Ladies' Diary," or the "Youth's Pocket book?" Really Vyvyan's are the best Riddles extant-he is himself a Riddle :

ENIGMAS.

A Templar kneel'd at a friar's knee;
He was a comely youth to see,

With curling locks, and forehead high,

And flushing cheek, and flashing eye;

And the Monk was as jolly and large a man
As ever laid lip to a convent can,

Or called for a contribution;

As ever read, at midnight hour,
Confessional in lady's bower,

Ordain'd for a peasant the penance whip,
Or spoke for a Noble's venial slip
A venal absolution.

"Oh, Father! in the dim twilight
I have sinned a grievous sin to-night;
And I feel hot pain e'en now begun
For the fearful murther I have done.

"I rent my victim's coat of green ;
I pierced his neck with my dagger keen ;
The red stream mantled high;
I grasp'd him, Father, all the while,
With shaking hand, and feverish smile,
And said my jest, and sang my song,
And laugh'd my laughter, loud and long,
Until his glass was dry!

66

My son! my son! for this thou hast done,

Though the sands of thy life for aye should run,"

66

The merry. Monk did say ;

Though thine eye be bright, and thine heart be light,
Hot spirits shall haunt thee all the night,

Blue devils all the day."

The thunders of the Church were ended,
Back on his way the Templar wended;
But the name of him the Templar slew
Was more than the Inquisition knew.

The Indian lover burst

From his lone cot by night ;-
When Love hath lit my first,

In hearts by Passion nurst,

Oh! who shall quench the light?

The Indian left the shore;

He heard the night-wind sing,

And curs'd the tardy oar,

And wish'd that he could soar,
Upon my second's wing.

The blast came cold and damp,
But, all the voyage through,

I lent my lingering lamp,

As o'er the marshy swamp

He paddled his canoe.

What Murray!-my old true friend of the Muse! I am sure thy graceful rhymes need no recommendation; so here they fly as fast as the mail will carry them, to the immortality of the Quarterly Magazine:

FAREWELL.

Farewell! farewell! that word of sever'd hearts

Hath seldom been to me a sadder sound.

A stranger from thy home of peace departs,

Yet all he quits to him is holy ground.

I feel the sanctity of love around,

Domestic love and quiet tenderness;
And never may on earth a spot be found
So rich in all that gentle spirits bless,
In all that poets dream, and never half express.

Through the green lanes no longer shall I roam,
To cull the wild flowers wet with early dews;
Or bear my motley prize in triumph home,
And gravely lecture on their forms and hues.
No more o'er Bemrade's tale of nature muse
Unsocial; or on listless couch reclined,

Watch thy small hands the cheering leaf infuse,
And laugh, beneath thy quiet look to find
The smile of silent thought, the sparkle of the mind.

* Le Nouveau Tableau de Famille.

Not soon shall I forget our darkened cell,
The mid-day twilight of our fragrant bower,
Where morning's coolness lingering loved to dwell,
And roses and the rich syringa flower
In blended beauty seemed to overpower
The very air with sweetness. Many a lay
Of love and sorrow wiled the sultry hour-
Of him who saw his loved one's wedding-day,
Then broken-hearted died in silence far away.

The sun sank down unclouded, and the breeze
Came wafting freshness from the pale grey sky,
And murmured in the quivering aspen-trees;
And oft unconsciously, in wandering by,

We paused, and listened with a smile and sigh
To that low melancholy music: few

And dim the stars were twinkling: and the eye
And ear a feeling of sweet sadness drew

From whispering winds and leaves, and evening's shadowy hue.

And Thou, with whom in twilight walk I strayed,
Wilt thou forgive me, if I turn to thee?
For once or twice, in solitude and shade,
A smile so simply sweet looked up to me,
That, wanderer as I am and fancy-free,
That look still haunts me like a lovely dream;
By lonely midnight musing still I see
That vision bright and beautiful, a gleam
Of momentary light on life's o'er-shadowed stream.

And this shall be my solitary pleasure
In studious cloister pale' or green arcade;
And long will Memory linger o'er her treasure:
The vine-clad cottage, and the rustic shade
With woven willow and the wood-bine made,
The portal turret, and the hoary spire,
In the soft sheen of summer-moon arrayed,
Or flashing with the lightning's livid fire,
Then deeper seeming still in darkness to retire.

Farewell! the smile of peace-the laugh of mirth,—
The silent sadness of the pallid brow—

To many a kindly thought had given birth,

Which shrunk from utterance, till I breathed them now.
And thou, the friend of days more boyish-thou,
The friend of evenings still remembered well,-
To me some thoughts of friendship yet allow,
And there will yet be magic in the spell,

Which calls up happy dreams from memory's haunted cell.