From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite;
With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height.
Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose,
A friend's defection, and the spleen of foes.
Black calumny invents her thousand lies,
And sickly envy blasts him if he rise-
He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules,
Must think and act no more like other fools:
For him no more that social ease remains
Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains;
Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen,
To search for faults it spares in other men.
How shall he wish in vain, once more his own,
That hour when free, and to the world unknown,
Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown.

THE FAREWELL.

BY JOHN I. BAILEY.

OH! leave me still thy tender heart,
Though love's delirious reign is over;
I, too, will act the traitor's part-
Cordelia-like, become a rover.

No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine,
That beam as sweetly on another,
Save with the feelings pure that twine
Around the bosom of a brother.

Loved smiles! that once around me shone,
And waked to feelings of devotion;
Thy sway is past, thy charm is gone-
Thou art resigned without emotion.
No more to charm my wildered dream,
Or hope's delusive joys to heighten;
O'er my lone heart thy cheerless beam
Falls, but has lost the power to brighten.

The auburn ringlets of thy hair

May twine as graceful still, and let themThose locks were once as loved as fair,

Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them.

Yes! I could view those curls entwine

Around another's hand that wreath'd them; Unmoved, recall those tones divine,

Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them!

Thy form no longer wears the spell,

As when a lover's dreams it haunted;

Nor can affection fondly dwell

On every grace that once enchanted.

Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain;
Go! yield thy charms to bless another;

I would not seek their wiles again,

I only ask-to be thy brother.

SONNET TO MYRA.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

How sad the exile from his native skies

Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell

No ear to catch his penitential sighs,

No voice to soothe him in his last farewell.
Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore,
And gazes anxious on the main

Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign
Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more;
Then horror climbs the dusky wave,

And beckons madness to her grave,

Where, cradled by the surge to rest,

Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest."
Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms;
Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms.

TO CORDELIA.

BY JOHN I. BAILEY.

SMILE not, sweet girl, 'tis even so-
Cordelia, smile not unbelieving;

My words, though not so sweet, I know,
As thine, were never so deceiving.

And if I must be sworn to prove
That I have said sincerely, thereby,
I'd choose thy brow, so formed for love,
To be the book I'd kissing swear by.

Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vainI value not thy frowns a feather— "Tis not thy nature to retain

An unkind thought for hours together.

I envy not thy lover's joys,

Nor flattering smiles that so endear them;

Thy brittle chains caprice destroys;

Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them?

Yes! I could give thee many a name

Of those who've waked thy tender bosom;

A flame succeeding still to flame,

Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em.

Content to wound that bosom too,

That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee; Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true, What joy could ranging thus afford thee?

I trust an angel's form thou'lt wear
E'er I ascend to yonder Heaven;

Or I a tale could give in there,

Would leave thee lost and unforgiven.

SONG. WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND

THEE.

BY G. P. MORRIS.

WHEN other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine;
When other bays have crowned thee,
More fresh and green than mine.
Then think how sad and lonely
This wretched heart will be;
Which, while it beats-beats only,
Beloved one! for thee.

Yet do not think I doubt thee;
I know thy truth remains,
I would not live without thee
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's troubled sea,

And whatever fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

YOUNG mother, he is gone,

His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast,
No more the music tone

Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.