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THE CYPRUS.

BY MISS LANDON.

THOU graceful tree,

With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.

Like one who patient grieves,
When winds are o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping;
While tear-like fall thy leaves.

When summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining;
Yet with thy slight bows declining,
Still thou seekest the earth.

Thy leaves are ever green:
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging;
Thou art still as thou hast been.

It is not just to thee,

For painter or bard to borrow

Thy emblem as that of Sorrow:

Thou art more like Piety.

Thou wert made to wave,

Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee,

Lowly when Summer suns restore thee,

Upon thy martyr's grave.

Like that martyr thou hast given
A lesson of faith and meekness,
Of patient strength in thy weakness,
And trust in Heaven!

STANZAS.

BY WILLIAM KENNEDY.

O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song;

These tones like a summoning spell awaken
The shades of feeling that slumbered long:
There's a hawthorn tree near a low-roofed dwelling,
A meadow green and a river clear,

A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling,
And a form unforgotten,-they all are here.

They are here, with dark recollections laden,
From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea;
They speak of the time when I left that maiden
By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree.
We parted in wrath ;-to her low-roofed dwelling
She turned with a step which betrayed her pain;
She knew not the love that was fast dispelling

The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.

We met no more ;-and her faith was plighted
To one who could not her value know;
The curse which still clings to affections blighted
Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe.
And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken-
The shades of feelings which slumbered long;
Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song.

SONG.

BY LORD BYRON.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy nameThere is grief in the sound—there were guilt in the

fame;

But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chainWe must part, we must fly, to unite it again.

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt;
Forgive me, adored one-forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it, whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more

sweet,

With thee by my side, than the world at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all we resign,
Thy lips shall reply not to them, but to mine.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

BY MISS JEWSBURY.

I SAW him on the battle eve,
When like a king he bore him!
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him:
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds,-
No daunting thoughts came o'er him ;-
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky!

He looked on ocean,-its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth, and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet:

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king!

I saw him next alone ;-nor camp,
Nor chief his steps attended,
Nor banners blaze, nor courser's tramp,
With war-cries proudly blended :-
He stood alone, whom Fortune high
So lately seemed to deify,

He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave:
Behind, the foe,-before, the wave!

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THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

He stood,-fleet, army, treasure gone,
Alone, and in despair!

While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And XERXES in a single bark,

Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare;-
Thy glorious revenge was this,
Thy trophy, deathless SALAMIS!

THE SONG OF PERDITA.

THE nest of the dove is rifled

Alas!-Alas!

The dream of delight is stifled,
And all that was

Of beauty and hope is broken-
But words will flee,

Though truest were ever spoken—
Alas, for me!

His words were as fragrant ever

As flowers to bees;

His voice like the mournful river—
But streams will freeze!

Ah! where shall I fly, deceived?
Ah! where-where rest?

I am sick, like the dove bereaved,-
And have no nest!

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