Amid the bow'r, with woodbines wove, Gay blooming sweets among; The wand'ring brook-the glitt'ring rill, Harmonious to each tree. * DARK LOURS THE NIGHT. DARK lours the night o'er the wide stormy main, This song is from the pen of Mr. WILSON, whose poetical talents and history our readers have been made in some degree acquainted with in the Scottish department of this work; and we are happy to correct a mistake we had fallen into in Volume I. page 317, in stating Mr. NEILSON as the printer of a poetical satire, which he has been kind enough to inform us is not the case. We would be sorry to be the propagators of calumny of any kind, much more of unfounded statements, and therefore gladly make all the reparation in our power by this acknowledg ment. For see on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er yon steep, MY YOUNG AND BLOOMING BRIDE. At night I will return to thee, My young and blooming bride. Night came, and Mosca still was seen The storm is past, the sky serene, But he returns no more. The moon-beam on the waters play'd, Reflected by her tear; The night-bird scream'd as on she stray'd, Her bosom throbb'd with fear! At length his form upon the wave Her straining eye descry'd; She sunk, and clasp'd him in the grave, THE LAST SHILLING. As pensive one night in my garret I sat, I was once the last coin of the law, a sad limb, A Jack tar, all his rhino but me at an end, 'Twas the wife of his messmate, whose glist'ning eye Where rakes in their ravels, the piper to pay, Have spurn'd me, their best friend and last shilling. Thou thyself hast been thoughtless, for profligates bail, I'll hoard thee in my heart. Thus men counsel refuse, THE DESERTED MAID. WHY heaves that soft bosom, my maiden so fair? Sure thy soul is not canker'd, or worn out with care, Ah! grey beard, thou'rt old, the fair maiden replied, I long'd for a lover—a lover there came, A year soon flew over-he still was the same, But rash judging woman! how soon are thy joys, 'Twas but yesterday's sun that had made me rejoice, And now he has left me to mourn. THE LAST WORDS OF MARMION. RECITATIVE. THE war, that for a space did fail, AIR. A light on Marmion's visage spread, With dying hand above his head, He shook the fragment of his blade, Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on!" TALK NOT OF LOVE. TALK not of love, it gives me pain, But friendship's pure and lasting joys, Your friendship much can make me blest, Why urge the only one request Your thought, if love must harbour there, *We owe this piece to BURNS's mysterious correspondent, his much admired CLARINDA. It is a noble production, and certainly justifies the unceasing compliment he pays her in his letters, for her refined taste and great mental endowments. The world is certainly much indebted to this amiable woman for those documents which, besides exhibiting many points of our Bard's cha racter, much to his praise, indisputably prove his merits as a prose writer to be of the highest kind. This is not the only time his fair friend had engaged the muses to their correspondence, as the reader will see by the following extract from No. VIII. of his letters to that lady :-"Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an excellent old Scots air, that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the Scotch Musical Museum. The latter half of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it.-The air is, The Banks of Spey, and is most beautiful.” |