the more; it will make you regard it every moment as a gratuitous benefit, and double your sentiments of gratitude. And when the hour of adversity may strike, you will be prepared for it, and it will neither astonish nor abase you; the idea that your happiness was only lent you for a time, will soften the bitterness of your regret, and leave you that strength, that freedom of mind, which will render you capable

calmly to seek resources, and to imbibe hope.

Before I bid you adieu, remember this maxim-a person may be prudent without being happy; but it is impossible to enjoy happiness without prudence.

VICTOIRE,
Ci-devant Religieuse.

Second year after the abolition
of Convents in France.

FUGITIVE POETRY.

Poems by Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson,

Author of " Astarte,” &c. &c. FROM this pleasing and interesting collection two or three poems have already appeared in La Belle Assemblée: we shall feel sorry if Mrs, Wilson keeps her word with the public, as she has declared in her Farewell; let us hope that it is, as she says, "like a lover's farewell," that often says adieu, but is impelled back again in spite of his resolutions.

The muse of Mrs. Wilson is a mournful one; she seems to delight in the penseroso; we will hope it is only the fiction of poetry, and that she knows sorrow only by name. Sickness is, however, a real ill; and she informs us that the greatest part of this collection was composed in those trying hours. After presenting to the fair poet our sincere wishes for her present health and happiness, we shall proceed to give a few extracts from these Poems, which evince a mind of elegance, taste, and feeling.

STANZAS.-REALITY OPPOSED TO ILLUSION. "There is an hour that all must feel,

A pang each human heart must know! A wound, all study to conceal,

That still through ling'ring years must flow!

'Tis when the magic veil's remov'd,

And, gazing round with startled eye, We see the world, once so much lov'd, Appear in stern reality;

Stript of the fairy hues that youth,

Love, Fancy, Hope, had o'er it thrown;
And by the clear cold light of Truth,
In all its real mis'ry shewn!
When ev'ry joy, young bosoms prize,
Tint after tint dissolve away,
As sunbeams in the western skies,
That vanish with departing day!
No. 147.-Vol. XXIII.

|| Then falls a blight upon the heart,
When thus it finds its hopes were vain ;
Like the crush'd flower-no time, no art,
Can ever make it bloom again!
Happier are they who press the tomb,

While life one bright Elysium seems,
Than those who, through an age of gloom,
Linger to mourn their early dreams!"

STANZAS ON DOMESTIC HAPPINESS, COMPOSED
DURING SICKNESS.

"Sweeter than Passion's fever'd sigh,
Dearer than Pleasure's fairy dream;
Before thee all life's sorrows fly,

Like mists before the morning beam;
Thou only can'st the roses fling,

That make life's rugged path-way blest;
And scatter from thy downy wing,

That peace which heals the wounded breast!
It is not in the revel loud-

At Mirth's, or Fashion's miduight shrine,
Where rival beauties thronging crowd,
That love asserts its power divine:
'Tis when the tortur'd frame is torn,
By all the pangs disease can give,
'Mid anguish, scarcely to be borne,
Its smile can bid the sufferer live!
Domestic love! thy hand can shed

Soft opiates o'er the burning brow;
And round the couch of Sickness spread
Those soothing hopes that cheer me now.
Yes! let the libertine deride

As priestcraft, wedlock's silken chain;
But tell me, has he ever tried

Its power in sorrow, or in pain?"

Yet, oh! in some far distant hour,

When many a circling year has flown;
Should Fancy wake, with magic pow'r,
One thought of moments that are gone:
When Reason bas dispell'd the mist,
That could each gen'rous feeling blind,
And Treach'ry shall no more exist,

To chill thy heart-or warp thy mind;
When Time's dark wing has swept away,
Or soften'd errors that are o'er;
And when the light that led astray,

· Though sent from heav'n'-shall shine no

more;

Should Memory with the wand of Truth,
Point out what riper years might blame :
Smile at the follies of my youth,

But give them not a harsher name!"

THE POET'S LYRE.-ON LORD BYRON.
'Sweet bard! whose magic fingers know,
How best to wake the wild harp's thrill;
To calm the tear, or bid it flow,

And mould each passion to thy will;
Who with a poet's glowing fire,
Bid'st feeling burn in every line;
Tell us what minstrel dare aspire,

To touch the harp that once was thine?
That harp with cypress is entwin'd,

And weeping flowrets round it spring;
At eve, the hollow-moaning wind,

Sighs o'er each now neglected string;
Though many a 'Son of song' is there,
Who tries to rouse its fairy tone;
All must the fruitless task forbear,
And own 'twas strung for thee alone!

In silence, then, the lyre must sleep

Till thou return'st to wake the strain ;

No hand save thine has power to weep

Few watch the fading gleams of day,
But muse on hopes, as quickly flown,
Tint after tint, they died away,

Till all at last were gone!

This is the hour when fancy wreaths,

Her spells round joys that could not last;
This is the hour when memory breathes,
A sigh to pleasure past!"

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE TRIAL OF BEAUTY.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

HIGH on her ivory throne, round which the
beams

Of light celestial flow'd in dazzling streams,
Sat Truth imperial, awful, and serene,
Whom prostrate Virtues honour'd as their Queen.
Her snowy robes profusely round her How'd,
And the white crescent on her forehead glow'd-
So bright, so stainless, every sparkling gem,
Seem'd borne from Sol's meridian diadem.
On one side Fortitude her seat assum'd,
And cheerful Temperance beside her bloom'd;
Chastity to Truth and Temperance allied,
Claim'd, with young Innocence, the other side:
Stern Justice sat below, while Mercy, near,
Sooth'd, with her soften'd tones, his jealons ear.
The court assembled, dew-eyed Pity rose,
And, pleading, thus her plaintive accent flows:-
"Celestial Queen, whose potent sway,
All heaven and earth with pride obey-
Whose flame once kindled in a heart,
Will never utterly depart;
Though Falsehood lead it far astray,
It finds to thee its former way.

Its heaven-strung chords-they strike in vain, Dost thou refuse the prayer to hear,

Each note a hollow murmur dies;

The tones no more are clear and free;

And mourning Genius 'frighted flies

To seek a distant clime with thee!"

THE EVENING HOUR.

"This is the hour when memory wakes,
Visions of joy that could not last;
This is the hour when fancy takes,

A survey of the past!

She brings before the pensive mind,

The hallow'd scenes of earlier years;
And friends, who long have been consign'd,
To silence and to tears!

The few we lik'd-the one we lov'd,
A sacred band! come stealing on;
And many a form far hence remov'd,

And many a pleasure gone!
Friendships, that now in death are hush'd,
And young affectiou's broken chain;
And hopes that fate too quickly crush'd,
In memory live again!

Nor grant the penitent a tear-
Nor let oblivion's veil be cast
O'er ev'ry fault and error past?
Ah, no! compassion's rays divine,
Round that bright brow celestial shine!
Then let repentant Beauty prove,
How tears can thy forgiveness move.
Come forth, thou lovely wanderer,
Thou bright, but ill-directed, star;
Who, led by Error's mists astray,
Lost in the heavens thy destin'd way."
She turn'd, and weeping Beauty forth she led,
O'er her fair face, a sudden blash was spread;
Graceful before the throne in tears she kneels,
And every beart, but awful Justice, feels.
Young Innocence the favourite of Truth,
Arose in all the ardent warmth of youth:
Her brow was crown'd with lilies, and the hue
Of her mild eye was heaven's clearest blue ;
The rose's softest tint her cheek embloom'd,
And her pure breath the ambient air perfum'd.
"Oh! let me plead for Beauty's pardon here➡
My early friend! companion once so dear.

Where once involv'd, hope no retreat to gain,
Thon't seek for honour, and for bliss in vain;
Art thy companion, Stratagem thy guide,
Remorse and Shame with Scandal shall divide
The wretched remnant of thy ruined peace,
And gulf'd in agony thy days shall cease.
Mild Temperance, who fondly joys to see
Her friend's lost child, her darling protegee,
When thou again her friendship shall refuse,
Its dazzling lustre every charm shall lose ;

Health, her sweet mother, lov'd me as her own,
And still in mutual love our days bad flown;
But Youth entic'd her from our peaceful fields,
To taste the joys seducing Pleasure yields;
Yet oft she turn'd to me, but still he prest-
Love, join'd with Flattery, soon did the rest;
She went, persuaded by the tales of Youth,
Forsook her mother, Innocence and Truth!
Yet, O forgive her, bright celestial Queen,
View now her tears, and her dejected mien;
Think on the charms, the blandishments of Thy cheek forget its rose-thy eye, its glow-

youth,

How Love persuades-and pardon her, sweet
Truth!"

Scarce had she ceas'd, when Justice sternly rose,
His measur'd accents Pity's bosom froze;
She flew to Mercy, sued her to attend
The trembling interests of her lovely friend.
A tear confirms the promise ere they part,
And grateful Pity placed it next her heart;
Join'd with sweet Hope delinquent Beauty's side,
Who sought in Pity's breast her shame to hide.
Now all was still as Justice spoke aloud,

And mute attention hush'd the listening crowd:
"Shall thus thy power be scoff'd, thy laws pro-

fan'd,

Immortal Goddess, and thy altars stain'd?
Shall Vice and Folly's victims seek thy throne,
And think with tears their conduct to atone ?
No! be their penance equal to their crime,
Be Beanty banish'd to some distant clime;
Where flowers ne'er bloom, nor sun-beams glad
the skies,

Thy form, its grace-thy song, its dulcet flow.
For him who lur'd thee from the paths of Truth,
False Pleasure's friend, wild, dissipated youth,
Whom nought but long experience can teach
'Tis virtue only bears ye to the reach
Of real pleasure, and secures the joy
Which warm to snatch, he hastens to destroy-
Age shall o'ertake his impious career,
Ere he has spent the summer of bis year-
Remorse shall torture his enfeebled mind,
No refuge in reflection shall it find-
The future, fearful-present, overcast,
And not a beam to gild the dreary past:
His former vices, like the ghostly dead,
Shall rise, and hover round his haunted head!
Approach, sweet Innocence, my chief delight,
Once more with Beauty, spotless maid, unite;
Thou needest not her aid, but without thine,
Her brightest charms must languish and de-
cline:

Once more this lovely union let me see,

Be to each other true as I'm to thee-
Go forth, and claim the homage justly due,
And those ye win to Love, to Virtue woo."

Where darkness lowers, and where tempests rise,
Where Falsehood's dire effects are only seen,
Where Peace has never dwelt, nor Virtue been-She ceas'd, and Iunocence to Beauty sprung,

There let the renegade her crime atone,
The base apostate from this peerless throne."
But Mercy's whisper breath'd upon his ear,
And still to Justice she was fondly dear;
But now be frown'd-" Too many here I see
Rising to plead, thou recreant fair, for thee.
From Truth's bright presence and this spotless
train,

Thou fled'st to Falsehood's and to Vice's reign;
Left the companions of thy early hours,
To riot in their wild luxuriant bowers-
Forgot the lessons of thy mother's friend,
Pure Temperance, who lov'd her aid to lend,
Health's darling offspring to adorn and rear,
A child so fondly, once so justly dear."
He pans'd, for Truth majestically rais'd
Her form angust, and with compassion gaz'd
On suppliant Beauty; waving then her hand,
Thus mildly utter'd her benign command:-
"Rise, lovely penitent, forgiven rise,
And claim again thy station in the skies;
This, thy first error, shall my pardon gain,
But from each future fault with fear abstain.
Should thou again my care and presence fly,
Each grateful feeling in thy breast shall die;
Scowling suspicion shall thy peace corrode,
And Falsehood's labyrinth be thy dark abode ;

In tender joy upon her bosom hung:
In Beauty's chaplet now the lily shines,
And Innocence the rose in her's entwines.

FRIENDSHIP.

BY THE SAME.

WE part, my friend, perhaps to meet
No more beneath these sunny skies-
Will e'er again this gay retreat

Behold such blended sympathies?
Here at the close of setting day,

We pass'd the calm conversive hour;
Confess'd the sweet, the holy sway,
Of generous friendship's magic power.
We left the world and all its joys,

If such a term its pleasures claim,
For that pure bliss which never cloys,
But still emits a brighter flame.

A flame which to the world unknown,
Is never seen to linger there;
The rich, the great, its power disown,
Unworthy of their costly care.

It is a flower whose gentle birth,
Endures not grandeur's fervid soil;