Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev'n more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED..
It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
"Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
Thro' a life, by his loss all shaded:
'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,
While it shines thro' our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them!
And, as buried saints the grave perfume

Where fadeless they've long been lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

"TIS believ'd that this harp which I wake now for thee,
Was a siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who, often at eve, thro' the bright billow rov'd
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd.
But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep,
Till Heav'n look'd, with pity, on true-love so warm,
And chang'd to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.