A WISH.

LET me not die for ever! when I'm gone
To the cold earth; but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
Over the clouds where sank day's majesty.
Let me not be forgotten! though the grave
Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow.
Let me not be forgotten! though the wave

Of time's dark current rolls above me now.
Yet not in tears remembered be my name;
Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality!

A WISH.

LET me not die for ever! when I'm laid
In the cold earth; but let my memory
Live still among ye, like the evening shade,
That o'er the sinking day steals placidly.
Let me not be forgotten! though the knell
Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;
Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell
For ever now in death's obscurity.
Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,
Trace not a record not a line for me,
But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,

And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

SONG.

THE moment must come, when the hands that unite In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;

When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly

to-night,

Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever.
Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though the future hour be dim-
The present is our own!

The moment is come, and again we are parting,
To roam through the world, each our separate

way;

In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting, But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its

ray.

Then wreathe again the goblet's brim

With pleasure's roseate crown!

What though the present hour be dim-
The future's yet our own!

The moment is past, and the bright throng that

round us

So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream; And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us, Like frost wreaths, that melt in the morning's first beam.

Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim!
With pleasure's roseate crown!

What though all else beside be dim

The past has been our own!

TO MRS.

OH lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the daring line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow.
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty.

While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,

Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream,