'SONNET.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

WEARY and faint, methought the cooling air
Of fragrant Eve I breathed in silent spot,
When, lo! to sight appeared the fatal fair
Now long unseen, but never yet forgot.
Timid her steps, her looks forgiveness prayed,

66

And, O my

Her heavenly eyes shone through repentant tears; friend!" with tenderest voice she said, "Still must resentment gloom Life's fairest years? "Ah! think how oft are mortals snared by guile; "Perfection dwells but in the realms of bliss." Blushing she bent, and, with an angel's smile,

Sealed on my lips the reconciling kiss.

I pressed her to my heart with joy supreme--
And waked, alas! to mourn my bliss a dream.

SONNET.

TO SILENCE.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

MOTHER of Thought, by many an empty noise
Though exiled oft, I own thy mild controul:
O ill exchanged art thou for their rude joys
Who drain diseases from the mantling bowl!
Thanks to thy influence, unobtrusive Power,
Fled from the vain and trifling throng, I feel
As lone I sit, at Midnight's solemn hour,

A sacred calmness o'er my bosom steal.
For then, while all Earth's pageants disappear,
Rapt in high musings, from this lower sphere
My freed and active spirit seems to soar:
Looks far beyond the narrow bounds of Time,
And sees in prospect that immortal clime,

Where sickness, pain and sorrow are no more.

SONNET.

BY MISS A. M. PORTER.

Now gleam the clouded host of stars! and now,
The vestal Dian, with her lamp of light
Veiled in mists; above the mountain's brow
Glides thro' the shadowy sky, and gilds the night :-
Here, where the desart moor, the water still,

In deepest gloom are stretch'd; and dim and far, The hamlet rests in sleep; what fancies fill

This lonely heart, and heavenly musings mar!— Ah! now perhaps, amid yon peaceful scene,

Death's noiseless scythe some blooming youth de stroys!

Or Sorrow, o'er wan embers, weeps past joys! Or houseless Hunger faints and groans between;

Or Murder, o'er some corpse, with bloody hands, Heark'ning its last dread cry, tremendous stands !

SONNET.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

GREYBEARDS they tell me, with a scornful smile,

That my bright hopes to find unshaken truth,
Friends ever firm, and love devoid of guile,
Are idle all-the baseless dreams of youth.
They say too, and in silent grief I hear,

That kindness oft shall be with wrong repaid; That, as I toil through life, each mournful year Shall see some fondly-cherish'd vision fade; That I must learn to scan with eyes severe

Man's every act, or be by man betray'd! O! if their tale be true, Delusions sweet,

If coming days but this cold prospect give; Yet, for a few short hours, my fancy cheat

And when ye vanish, let me cease to live.

SONNET.

THE TIMID LOVER.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

YES, it is true, I uttered not my

tale;

But, didst thou never hear the bitter sighs That swelled my breast, ne'er see what deadly pale Stole o'er my cheek, how often to mine eyes, Spite of myself, the grief-wrung tears would rise, When, by thy side, some youth than me more bold, More blest in all those charms that wealth supplies, With ready tongue his artful story told? Hast thou not seen my passion, ill-controuled,

For thee in thousand nameless actions shewn? Seen that in others nought could I behold?

That still I spoke, moved, breathed for thee, alone? And might not these have taught thee, far above The feeble power of words, my matchless love?