This elegant rose, lad I shaken it less,

Miglit have bloom'd with its owner a while : And the tear that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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TO THE GLOW-WORM.

BY WOLCOTT.

BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field;
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield ;

To me, oh, nightly be thy splendour given! Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command, How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand,

With every sweetest dew of heaven!

Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train,
Amid the gambols on the stilly plain,

Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten’d blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amid the gentle elfen band to shine,

And chase the horrors of the midnight shade!

Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bower, And with barbarian beak thy life devour !

Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O’erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat; Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,

And bid thee 'mid the humming myriads die! Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight!

Of such these willing hands a bower shall form, To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,

And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.

Sweet child of stillness! 'mid the awful calm

Of pausing Nature thon art pleased to dwell; In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,

And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.

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How different man, the imp of noise and strife,
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life;

Blest when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,

And, silent, shine in solitude and shade!

HOHENLINDEN.

BY CAMPBELL.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!.

Few, few shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

I WISH I WAS WHERE ANNA LIES.

BY GIFFORD.

I wish I was where Anna lies;
For I am sick of lingering here:

hour'Affection cries,
Go and partake her humble bier.

And every

I wish I could ! for when she died,

I lost my all; and life has proved, Since that sad hour, a dreary void,

A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turn' d to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no business there?"

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And who with pious hand shall bring

The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?

Y

And who, while memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,

; Should visit still, should still deplore-But health and strength have left me now,

And I, alas ! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain;

The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye,

Thy spirits, frolicksome as good,

Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,

Thy gay good-humour-can they fade!

Perhaps--but sorrow dims my eye:

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh,

A long, a last, a sad adieu !