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The smile re-animates my heart;

Remembrance gives its welcome aid : Then mine, and mine alone, thou art; But soon the phantom-pleasures fade!

The smile is fled-the sudden beam
That o'er the past so brightly shone,
Now fades away; the fainter gleam
Of promised happiness is gone.

Oh! would Futurity unveil

What must be, to my mental eye;
My spirit then might cease to quail,
When hopes and fears for ever die.

Again to meet thee; then to love
With all the zest surprise can bring;
Again to find my absent dove,

Again to hear my syren sing

This will I hope; yet, self-deceiving,
Like younglings laughing o'er the bowl,
That pleasure is their friend believing-
Thus hope intoxicates the soul.

Still is thy dear resemblance mine :
How mild, how eloquent that look!
Those eyes like twin-stars seem to shine:

I yet possess thee-though forsook ;—

Forsook by her who loved me more,

As once I thought than words can tell; In Spenser's verse we learn'd love's lore,

And thou wert then my Florimel.

This cheat of fancy long beguiled
Our winter nights, our summer days;
And Spenser's gentle spirit smiled

To hear two lovers hymn his praise.

And then Cleopolis on earth
Inimitable, oft we sought;

And oft applauded valour's worth,

As knights with savage giants fought :

Enough of this; my care-worn mind

Less happy thoughts must now engage! Mine own dear love I cannot find; Can fabled loves my grief assuage ?


The affecting narration of the death of Hossein, the grandson of Mahomet, may be read it is, indeed, a pleasure to read it,) in Gibbon's “ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. v. page 268, quarto edition.

THE Fatimites wearied, yet fearless oppose,

Though thinn'd in their numbers, their multiplied foes; With despair in their looks, how they rage o'er the field! Though broken, their triumph is never to yield !

Their sabres well-flesh'd, still gleam in the air,
They fight like the lion aroused from his lair;
Each stroke is a death-blow,—in vain, for beneath
The pressure of myriads their last gasp they breathe.

But one yet remains. On, boasters! and slay
The noblest of victims that's stricken to-day!
'Tis Hossein the valiant-unarm'd, yet unmoved,

Though his heart inly bleeds for the brave ones he loved.

Near his tent he awaits the sad signal, and see
His boys in the spring-time of age on his knee!
He weeps, but the tear for their sorrow is shed,
Now, now, to their hearts swift the death-shaft is sped!

O! spare him ye murderers, childless, alone

He bends o'er the lifeless, their death-knell his
He cries to his God in his agony now,


The damp sweat commingling with blood on his brow!

Still merciless! on, ye brave monsters! imbrue
Your hands in his blood, who is praying for you.
Bereft of its ivy, the desolate wall

Invites the destroyer to hasten its fall :—

The warrior is dying! what spirit appears

To rush from his tent ?-'tis his sister in tears! "Yet save him—my brother-look, look how he bleeds! "Oh, Shamar!"-in vain the fair suppliant pleads!

He is slain!-but the Moslems yet cherish his fame,
And dear to the hearts of the young is his name:
And the aged revere it; the freeman and slave
Still mourn for the death of the gentle and brave.




WELL might the comic Muse, with drooping head,
Heave the deep sigh-her Sheridan is dead:
The sisters mourn for him, whose master-mind
Each separate talent in itself combined,
Wit, eloquence, and poetry; the fame
Of either had immortalised his name.

O, could the Muse's skill but match her zeal,
Then might the mournful lay, like his, appeal
To British hearts; like his, when Garrick died;
How glow'd the verse to sympathy allied!

Each word with plaintive sweetness charm'd the ear,
As flowers exhale a fragrance o'er the bier.

Where is the mourner now, whose bosom bled
For kindred genius gone?-he too is dead!
Turn to the scenes of mimic life, there view

The characters our young Menander drew :

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