And those they lov'd their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Tho' boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene;
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
Even, when, by death's cold hand remov❜d,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think, that e'en in death he lov❜d,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect chears,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Her's are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of withered joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye :
The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself, despairs to cure
Those pangs to every feeling due ;
Ungenerous youth!-thy boast how poor;
To win a heart,—and break it too.
No cold approach, no alter❜d mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest, and broke my heart.
From hope, the wretched's anchor torn,
Neglected, and neglecting all;
Friendless, forsaken and forlorn,
The tears, I shed, must ever fall.
These lines, also are sent to us by The Archer; we in sert them, as we received them, without comment.
My love was sweeter than the rose,
Wash'd with the morning dew;
But cold she lies, as wint'ry snows,
Beneath this lonely yew:
From hence my sorrows, and my care,
Will with my days, increase;
For ah!-my love lies buried here,
And with her all my peace !
Where daisy-dappled banks invite ;
Or by the fountain clear;
Or upland slope could yield delight,
If Delia, she was there :-
Attun'd to love, our hearts were true,
When wandering through the grove;
Each bird hung forward from its bough,
To hear the voice of love.
Where beds of flowers their fragrance breathe,
-The woodbine bower among-
There, as she wove the civic wreathe,
She charm'd me with her song ;
Delicious, then, the balmy gale,
That kiss'd the thistle's beard:
The myrtle-grove, and elm-clad vale,
Her lovely hands had rear'd.
But, now, alas -nor purling rill;
Nor daisy-dappled dale;
Nor myrtle-grove; nor sloping hill;
Nor odour-fanning gale;
Nor violet bank; nor roseat bower;
Nor shade of alder tree;
Can, since my Delia is no more,
Diffuse their charms to me.
The Archer has likewise, sent us the following verses, with these introductory remarks.
"Perfect grief shuns ostentation, as sedulously, as genuine piety. The wan eye of sorrow loves to gaze on the sacred hoard of treasured woe ;-but never sounds a trumpet before it in the streets, A true child of affliction wrote the following lines."
Come smiles, come gay attire, and hide
The anguish rankling in my breast;
I'll lay my sable garb aside,
And seem to cold inquirers blest.
Yes, I will happy triflers join,
As when grief's dart beside me flew,
And peace, and all its joys were mine,
And sorrow, but by name I knew;
Ere death had seal'd the cruel doom,
And call'd thee, Mary, to the tomb.
Hard was the stroke, but oh! I hate
The sacred pomp of grief to shew;
Thron'd in my breast, in secret state,
Shall live the reverend form of woe;
For observation would degrade
The homage to her empire paid.
I hate the tear which pity gives;
I'm jealous of her curious eye;
The only balm my heart receives,
Is from my own unheeded sigh.
When veil'd in night, to sleep a foe,
I bend before the throne of woe,
A face of smiles, a heart of tears;
So in the church-yard realm of death,
The turf increasing vendure wears,
While all is pale and dead beneath,
A LOVELY WOMAN.
Wise, beauteous, good! O, every grace combin'd,
That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fresh, as the floweret, opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves,
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the melodies at close of day,
That heard remote, along the vale decay!
Yet, why with these compar'd?-what tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness can be match'd with thine?
Why roam abroad, since recollection true,
Restores the lovely form to fancy's view?
Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the graces smile
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where wisdom sits enthron'd serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien;
Still, let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yields, gently led, to virtues easy sway.
By thee inspired, O virtue, age is young.
And music warbles from the flattering tongue;
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure, heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
But when youth's living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistles on the view the glory streams,
Love, wonder, joy, alternately alarm,
And beauty dazles with angelic charm,
When the keen Halcyon o'er the watery plain
Spreads his gay plumage in the blaze of day,
Lured by the splendid tints the finny train
Leave the dark ooze, and near the surface play;
Side-long they glide,-now flounce above the stream,
Charm'd is their eye, their fears no more abound.
And, now, the plunderer, with his lynx-like beam,
Unerring darts, and scatters ruin round.
So the coy maiden, from the peaceful groves,
Is lured by man's gay garb and winning wiles;
Pleas'd she beholds the pest,-anon she loves,
And the soft passion every care beguiles;
When, strait, the ever-watchful spoiler springs,
And to the poor charm'd wretch o'er-whelming ruin brings.
Retrospective History of America.
N consequence of the great number of communications,
sent to us, some of which we have inserted, and, also, in consequence of the notices of new American publications, which it is of importance to insert, we have no room for any portion of the retrospective history in the publication for this month.
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