Then look'd on Anna--and a sigh
Unheeded from her bosom fled-
And then-in speechless apathy,

Gazed on the ocean's tranquil bed.

The minstrel youth, who, ling'ring nigh,
A lover's hopes and fears had proved,
Thought ev'ry breeze that murmur'd by
Brought news of bliss from her he loved.

But all was silent-all was still-
Again he waked the trembling lyre;
Again, obedient to his will,

It utter'd love and soft desire.

A voice arose, whose every word
Fell sweet as Hybla's honey tear,

And plaintive as that lonely bird

That tells her woes in Evening's ear.

"Can the river flow on in a unison stream,

If the fountains that feed it with waves are suppress'd? The sun-flower withers, if reft of the beam

Of the God that enlightens and nurtures her crest.

"Then pity the lover, who sighing implores

One smile to disperse his soul's lowering shade; If bereft of the light of those eyes he adores,

Like the flower when blighted, he'll sicken and fade.

"O can that fair bosom, Selina, O can it

Be deaf to the cries of the wretched? O no!
As the billow bends down to the breezes that fan it,
So woman's soft heart bends to accents of woe.

"Then bid me but hope, and my wandering lute

Again shall sound cheerly, again shall be gay, But frown on me, loved one, but frown on my truth, And then silent the Wand'rer, then hush'd is the Lay."

The maid had heard-her bosom heaved,
And passion sparkled in her eye;
E'en for a while of sense bereaved,
She stood entranced in ecstacy.

For music, with its magic pow'r,
Each fibre of the soul can move;
But doubly charms at lonely hour,
When warbled by the lips of love.

With gentle blandishment it woos,
And weaves a chain the heart around,
Till every pulse the strain pursues,
And beats responsive to the sound.

But short the bliss that wrapt her soul,
And short that visionary calm;
She spurn'd her Anna's soft control,
And flung away the lifted arm.

That image, which in Fancy's eye
She saw to touch the trembling lyre,
Raised in her breast Love's tempest high,
Usurp'd Affection's softer fire.

There was but one-one heart alone,
That moment all the world within,
That she would wish to call her own,
That she would care to lose or win.

And still the strain her Lona sung
Would vibrate on her list'ning ear;
Each airy accent of his tongue

Seem'd still as if 't was warbling near.

She stood awhile-but passion's tide
Was pour'd along her eddying soul!
And, springing from her Anna's side,
She darted, reckless of control,

Through that fair window's open frame,
And gain'd the balcony-her form
Shone lovely as some fairy dame,
Or white-robed spirit of the storm.

She saw the much-loved youth beneath,
While kindled love her bosom warms;
And hardly daring to take breath,
She rush'd to meet her Lona's arms.

I know no more-a little bark,
Whene'er the moon illumed the tide,
Was seen amid the billows dark
In bounding playfulness to glide.

And there was heard the murm'ring sound
Of oars, that dash'd the briny spray ;
And when the zephyr play'd around,
It bore along this simple lay:

"O smile, Love, to-night, for together we trace
The rude ocean of billows, deriding its ire ;
I'll warm thee, when cold, in a lover's embrace,
And lull thee to sleep with the sound of the lyre.

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"Then smile, Love, to-night-for the breast of the wave
Seems to sparkle aneath the rude dash of the oar;
For the Nereids laugh in their coralline cave,
And speed us away to some happier shore."

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

X.C.

Peregrine Courtenay to “ Coll. apud Cantab. Soc."

MY DEAR SIR,-Your letter has afforded me so much amusement in my closet, that I should consider myself quite unpardonable if I made no return for the favour of it: and, since you have opened to me no means of private communication, I am compelled to acknowledge my obligations to you publicly..

I am really quite charmed with you epistolary style. There is a something of ease and jauntiness about it, which I would almost give his Majesty's crown to acquire. But "what's impossible can't be"-I must scribble as well as I may !

Your description of your breakfast-table, on the first of the month, quite enraptured me. "Your papercutter always accompanies your breakfast apparatus; and you leisurely inspect the Nuga Literaria, which you regularly take in." I had the whole picture before me in a moment! The mahogany table,-the clean cloth,-the buttered toast, the chocolate,-the spruce serving-man, or sprucer serving-maid, and Coll. apud Cantab. Soc.

seated in a great arm-chair, almost as big as my own, looking by turns at the breakfast and the Nuga, and gaping for both with the appetite of an Ogre. Beside him, on a little spider-legged table, legions of periodical worthies repose; but I pass them all over to come to his "chiefest delight."" My chiefest delight, Sir, I readily confess, is drawn from the pages of The Etonian."" -My dear Sir, you are the best Critic that ever drank chocolate. So far we have gone on smoothly, but the catastrophe is shocking!

"Sir!

It is the first of March.-The servant enters :I have been to Mr. Warren's”—(Coll. apud Cantab. Sóc. testifies impatience.)-"The Etonian' is not arrived"(Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. looks black.)—" It is not expected." (Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. is in a passion.)— He calls for pen, ink, and paper; he indites, yea! he indites a grievous letter! He taketh up the cudgels, and he will no more take in the work; he giveth us his sage advice, and he will no more give us his two shillings.

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And you really think, my dear Sir, that "the vaunted extension of The Etonian's' sale must not be relied upon!" I think this an unfair insinuation, and I shall be serious about it; which I very seldom am. I will lead you into our Printing-Office;-put you quite behind the scenes. In this work we have no view to individual reputation; and therefore we do not wish to dispose of more than a limited number of copies. We print 750 copies of every Number; we shall continue to do so; and we shall sell them all! Mark me, Sir! I cannot prevent your "inferences" or your fears;" but, by his Majesty's whiskers, we shall sell them all. -Our sale will never be "extended."

To proceed." You had intended to offer me a few criticisms upon the Review of Wordsworth's Poetry, and on a few other passages in The Etonian' which appear to favour the profession of principles, which you would willingly persuade yourself its conductors do not