SONG

OF A NORTHERN LOVER IN WINTER.

BY MISS SEWARD.

THE dark winds are blowing around the rude hill, And the ice of the evening has crusted the rill. Thy waves, O Loch Lomond! can glitter no more, But, in dim stony fragments, encumber the shore.

And now for the moon, looking mild on the brook, Swift lights of the north thro' the zenith are struck; Those flashes, pale-streaming, shall guide my lone way, And the steps of a Lover in safety convey.

Then louder the wings of the winter may sound,
And the frost's cutting arrows dart keener around,
So the white shrouding flakes of the snow are with-

held

From the mine of the heath, and the lake of the field!

* Snow covering mines, pits, and slightly frozen pools, in mountainous countries, where there are no turnpike roads, is imminently dangerous.

SONG

IN IMITATION OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

BY MR. J. H. L. HUNT.

THROW the gaudy roses from thee,
Dash the cup to earth:

Little, heedless youth, become thee
Wreaths, and wine, and mirth!

Dash the cup to earth.

Care beneath those flow'rs will sting thee;

Roses hide but thorns;

Stings to pain and woe will bring thee;

Pain no life adorns.

Roses hide but thorns.

Pr'ythee, cease thy frantic revel;

Pr'ythee, hush thy noise;

Happy lives tread light and level,

Hate such clam'rous joys.

Pr'ythee, hush thy noise.

Touch the lyre in gentle measure;
Peace is all our heav'n;

Bliss is an immortal's treasure;

Nor to man is giv'n.

Peace is all our heav'n.

Bowls they break, and wreaths they wither;

Virtue ne'er can fade;

Here her roses bloom, (O, hither!)

An immortal shade!

Virtue ne'er can fade.

STANZAS.

BY MR. P. L. COURTÍER.

O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!

When peace and joy no more remain,

And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast;

When hope is heard, alas! in vain ;
The bitterness of death is past!

O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!

PSALM XIX.

THE heav'ns, and all their beauteous host,
In space, immeasurable, lost;

The vast expanse, and glorious frame,
Their great Creator's power proclaim:
Day unto day his wisdom tells,
And night to night the same reveals:
By speech, or language, unconfin'd,
They strike conviction on the mind;
And thro' the regions of the earth,
Declare the wonders of their birth,
Upheld by this Almighty source,
The sun, rejoicing, runs his course,
Unwearied, each revolving year,
To execute his swift career.
To distant climes his race extends,
The world, his circuit comprehends,
And, where he shines, he still displays
An emblem of his Maker's praise.

The law of God, a perfect whole,
And undefil'd, converts the soul;—