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TO-MORROW.

ANONYMOUS.

SAY, pensive youth, why heave that sigh?
Why trembling stands the tear of sorrow?
With waning day thy care shall die,

And smiling joy be thine to-morrow.

Does slighted love oppress thy heart?
For slighted love 'tis vain to sorrow;
Tho' with your mistress you may part,
A kinder you may meet to-morrow.

Has fortune frown'd, and friendship fled ?

Those common ills should ne'er move sorrow; For friends by fortune's smiles are led,— They both may come again to-morrow.

Hast thou upon the great in vain

Relied, and brought thy heart to sorrow? Their smiles and promises disdain ;

And happier stars may rule to-morrow.

From fortune's frowns, and slighted love,
Celestial hope can pleasure borrow,
Nor keen suspense long pain can prove
To him who fondly trusts to-morrow.

To-morrow is the balm of life,

The stay of hope! the dream of sorrow! From Misery's hand it wrests the knife; Despair alone would shun to-morrow.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

WILSON.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson ting'd its braided snow:
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Ev'n in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanc'd to blow,
Wafted the trav'ller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of Mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

MUSIC.

ANONYMOUS.

Oн yes, the sounds were sweet as those
That die away at evening's close,

And gentle as the tones that fall
From waters wildly musical.
But Music is not dear to me,
It wakes too much of memory;
There is a spell in Music's sigh,
That breathes too much of days gone by.
The silver tone, the sweet-voic'd shell,
To me are sad as the farewell

Of parting lovers! Music wakes
The wildest throbs, and Music takes
Each shape of fancy; but it brings
To me the shades of lovely things
Past, and for ever hopes deferr'd,
Or, like the song of the spring-bird,
Dying when sweetest: Music's sigh
First taught me Love's idolatry,
Wak'd my young heart to find (too late)
It might be left all desolate ;

To curse the dream-like life before;
To love the once-lov'd song no more;
To know hope, genius, spirit filed,
Soul-sickness, feeling withered!
Rather be mine the heartless smile,
A flower upon the lava, while
Beneath its flame and barrenness
The colours do not glow the less.
I bade my heart once be my world,
And dream'd it could; but I was hurl'd

From my enchanted pinnacle

Of hope, of joy, of trust, to dwell

'Mid those stern truths which chill'd that heart,

And bade youth's fairy lights depart.

And Music has to me a tone

Sacred to thoughts, to feelings gone,
When love was faith, or ere I knew
Its altar frail, its sigh untrue,-
That it was like the hues that spring
Upon the rainbow's wandering.
But now those feelings cannot be,
Their echo is too sad for me;

For what can Music breathe me now-
The blighted hope, the broken vow!

MUTUAL LOVE.

MRS TIGHE.

OH! who the exquisite delight can tell,
The joy which mutual confidence imparts?
Or who can paint the charm unspeakable
Which links in tender bands two faithful hearts?
In vain assail'd by fortune's envious darts,
Their mitigated woes are sweetly shar'd,
And doubled joy reluctantly departs :
Let but the sympathizing heart be spared,
What sorrow seems not light, what peril is not dared?

Oh! never may Suspicion's gloomy sky
'Chill the sweet glow of fondly-trusting Love!
Nor ever may he feel the scowling eye
Of dark Distrust his confidence reprove!
In pleasing error may I rather rove,
With blind reliance on the hand so dear,
Than let cold prudence from my eyes remove
Those sweet delusions, where nor doubt, nor fear,
Nor foul disloyalty, nor cruel change appear.

The noble mind is ever prone to trust;
Yet love with fond anxiety is join'd;
And timid tenderness is oft unjust;

The coldness which it dreads too prompt to find,
And rack with cruel pain the feeling mind.
Hence rose the gloom which oft o'er Psyche stole
Lest he she lov'd, unmindful or unkind,
Should, careless, slight Affection's soft control,
Or she long absent lose her influence o'er his soul.

LIVING POETS.

ΚΝΟΧ.

SAY, wilt thou write romantic tales, like Scott,
With all of fancy's wild magnificence?
Or strike, like Campbell, a deep organ-note,

That thrills with rapture every captive sense? Or fill, like Moore, the songs of ardent passion With far-fetch'd similes-a strange transgression?

Or wilt thou sit like an hysteric maid,

Like Wordsworth, weeping o'er a faded daisy? Or wrap thyself, like Coleridge, in a shade

Of unintelligible thoughts and mazy?

Or wade, like Crabbe, through folly, vice, and dirt, To talk with mortals that have scarce a shirt?

Wilt thou, like Byron, with distorted mind,
Clothe home-ideas like the eastern kings,
And send them back again to dupe the blind,
Who hail them all as new-created things?
Or try, like Percy Shelley-very odd!—
To wound the pious, and insult thy God?

Or wilt thou venture, and succeed like Southey, To pay addresses to the Epic Muse?

Or weave a web of recollections youthy,

As Rogers doth-though not of brightest hues? Or like Montgomery, with a nameless art, Pour forth the holiest feelings of the heart?

Wilt thou, like Hunt, twine out a little story
Already told-twine half its charm away?

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