'Tis then man dreams of Paradise,
If aught he dreams of place like this,
"Tis then he breathes the crystal air,
Which Peris breathe who wander there,
And sips the fount of Native Love
Found no where but in heaven above.

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

"Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye, Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,

Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,

Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky;
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

"Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
"Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;

When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.

Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,
And love will droop in the cheerless shade,
Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,
It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.
But oh! the light of the constant soul

Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim;
Though wo may weep in life's mingled bowl,
Love still shall hover around its brim.

LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE.

[Translated from the German of Körner.]

BY ROSWELL PARK.

WHAT gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day? Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer!

It hither approaches in gloomy array,

While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way,
The soul overwhelming with terror!

Those swart companions you view in the race,-
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade, From mountain to mountain deploying?

They place themselves nightly in ambuscade,

They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade, The French usurpers destroying!

Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by,
The tyrant securely is sleeping;-

They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky;
With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply;
Soon safe on his island-shore leaping!
Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar,
Where swords in thick carnage are clashing?
Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore;
The spark of true freedom is kindled once more,
From war's bloody altars out-flashing!
Those horsemen swart who the combat face,
Those are Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun, 'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery?

;—

Death creeps o'er their visage,-their labours are done ;Their valiant hearts tremble not;-victory's won;

Their father-land rescued from slavery!

Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace,
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

The wild German Yagers,-their glorious careers
Dealt death to the tyrant oppressor !

Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers,
When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears;
Since we alone died to redress her.

Our mem❜ry transmitted, no time shall erase ;—
Those were Lützow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

STANZAS.

BY JAMES NACK.

I KNOW that thou art far away,
Yet in my own despite
My still expectant glances stray
Inquiring for thy sight.

Though all too sure that thy sweet face
Can bless no glance of mine,

At every turn, in every place,
My eyes are seeking thine.

I hope-how vain the hope, I know-
That some propitious chance
May bring thee here again to throw
Thy sweetness on my glance.
But, loveliest one, where'er thou art,
Whate'er be my despair,

Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heart

(Will love thee

every where.

LINES.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet standing among the ruins of Carthage.]

THOU mouldering pile, that hath withstood
The silent lapse of many ages,

The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,
Around whose base the ocean rages;
Who reared thy walls that proudly brave

The tempest, battle, and the wave?

Was it beneath thy ample dome
That Marius rested, and from thee,
When he had lost imperial Rome,

Learned high resolve and constancy?
Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,
And well might'st teach the lesson great.

Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung

Of yore, with laughter's merry shout,
While beauty round her glances flung
To cheer some monarch's wassail rout;
But mirth and beauty long have fled
From this lone City of the Dead.

Where busy thousands oft have trod
Beneath thy mouldering marble brow,
Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,
Around thee all is silence now.

And thus the breath of foul decay
Shall melt at last thy form away.

Thou desolate, deserted pile,

Lone vestage of departed glory,

Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,

While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,

As if resolved the tale to tell

Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.

Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,
Around thee strewn may yet be seen
The broken column, sculptured stone,

And relics sad of what hath been.
But thou alone survivest the fall,
Defying Time, dread leveller of all.