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THE ROSE THAT ALL ARE PRAISING.

THE rose that all are praising

Is not the rose for me;
Too many eyes are gazing
Upon the costly tree;

But there's a rose in yonder glen,
That shuns the gaze of other men,
For me its blossom raising,-

Oh that's the rose for me.

The gem a king might covet

Is not the gem for me;
From darkness who would move it,
Save that the world may see?
But I've a gem that shuns display,
And next my heart worn every day,
So dearly do I love it,-

Oh! that's the gem for me.

Gay birds in cages pining

Are not the birds for me; Those plumes, so brightly shining, Would fain fly off from thee: But I've a bird that gayly sings; Though free to rove, she folds her wings, For me her flight resigning,Oh! that's the bird for me.

SHE NEVER BLAMED HIM.

SHE never blamed him, never;
But received him, when he came,
With a welcome kind as ever,

And she tried to look the same;
But vainly she dissembled-

For whene'er she tried to smile, A tear unbidden, trembled,

In her blue eye all the while. She knew that she was dying,

And she dreaded not her doom; She never thought of sighing

O'er her beauty's blighted bloom. She knew her cheek was alter'd,

And she knew her eye was dim; Her voice, though, only falter'd

When she spoke of losing him. 'Tis true that he had lured her From the isle where she was born"T is true he had inured her

To the cold world's cruel scorn; But yet she never blamed him

For the anguish she had known; And though she seldom named him, Yet she thought of him alone. She sigh'd when he caress'd her,

For she knew that they must part; She spoke not when he press'd her To his young and panting heart. The banners waved around her,

And she heard the bugle's soundThey pass'd-and strangers found her Cold and lifeless on the ground.

SHE WOULD NOT KNOW ME,

SHE would not know me were she now to view me;
My heart was gay, when long ago she knew me ;
My songs were daily tuned to some gay measure,
And all my visions were of future pleasure;
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by-she will not know me.
In these sad accents she will ne'er discover
The cheerful voice of him who was her lover;
Nor will these features in their gloom remind her
Of the gay smile they wore when she was kinder:
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by-she will not know me.

"T would pain her, did she note my deep dejection,
To know that she had crush'd such fond affection:
And not for all the world shall my distresses
Chase from her heart the joy it still possesses;
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by-she will not know me.

THE OLD KIRK YARD.

OH! come, come with me, to the old kirk yard,
I well know the path through the soft green sward;
Friends slumber there we were wont to regard,
We'll trace out their names in the old kirk yard.
Oh! mourn not for them, their grief is o'er,
Oh! weep not for them, they weep no more,
For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard
Their pillow may be in the old kirk yard.

I know it is in vain, when friends depart,
To breathe kind words to a broken heart;
I know that the joy of life seems marr'd
When we follow them home to the old kirk yard.
But were I at rest beneath yon tree,
Why shouldst thou weep, dear love, for me;
I'm way worn and sad, ah! why then retard
The rest that I seek in the old kirk yard?

GRIEF WAS SENT THEE FOR THY
GOOD.

SOME there are who seem exempted
From the doom incurr'd by all;
Are they not more sorely tempted?
Are they not the first to fall?
As a mother's firm denial

Checks her infant's wayward mood,
Wisdom lurks in every trial-

Grief was sent thee for thy good.
In the scenes of former pleasure,

Present anguish hast thou felt ?
O'er thy fond heart's dearest treasure
As a mourner hast thou knelt ?
In the hour of deep affliction,

Let no impious thought intrude,
Meekly bow with this conviction,
Grief was sent thee for thy good.

I TURN TO THEE IN TIME OF NEED.

I TURN to thee in time of need,
And never turn in vain;

I see thy fond and fearless smile,

And hope revives again.

It gives me strength to struggle on,
Whate'er the strife may be;
And if again my courage fail,
Again I turn to thee.

Thy timid beauty charm'd me first;
I breathed a lover's vow,
But little thought to find the friend

Whose strength sustains me now;

I deem'd thee made for summer skies,
But in the stormy sea,
Deserted by all former friends,

Dear love, I turn to thee.

Should e'er some keener sorrow throw
A shadow o'er my mind;

And should I, thoughtless, breathe to thee
One word that is unkind;
Forgive it, love! thy smile will set

My better feelings free;

And with a look of boundless love,
I still shall turn to thee.

ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL!

SHADES of evening, close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark awhile!
Morn, alas! will not restore us
Yonder dim and distant isle;
Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell;
Darker shadows round us hover,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

"Tis the hour when happy faces

Smile around the taper's light; Who will fill our vacant places?

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us, Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing, fondly, fare thee well! When the waves are round me breaking, As I pace the deck alone,

And my eye in vain is seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon; What would not I give to wander Where my old companions dwell? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

OH NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER.

Он, no! we never mention her;

Her name is never heard;

My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word.

From sport to sport they hurry me,

To banish my regret;

And when they win a smile from me,

They think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene
The charms that others see;
But were I in a foreign land,

They'd find no change in me.
"Tis true that I behold no more
The valley where we met;
I do not see the hawthorn tree-
But how can I forget!

They tell me she is happy now—

The gayest of the gay; They hint that she forgets me now, But heed not what they say; Like me perhaps she struggles with Each feeling of regret; But if she loves, as I have loved, She never can forget,

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings. Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! naught but misery brings; I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay:

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

GEORGE CROL Y.

THE REV. GEORGE CROLY was born in Ireland, I believe in 1786, and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated with a high reputation for abilities and scholarship. Soon after receiving the degree of Master of Arts, he entered holy orders and was appointed rector of a parish in the diocess of Meath. He remained here until the commencement of the war in Spain, when he went to London with a view to visit the Peninsula. The peace of 1815, however, induced a change of his intentions, and he directed his course through Germany to Paris, where he wrote the larger portion of his first considerable work, Paris in 1815, which was published on his return to England, and received with unusual applause, though its appearance was in the most brilliant period of modern English literature, the period in which BYRON, Shelley, and the other great poets of the century, were in turn enchaining the admiration of mankind. He subsequently wrote a second part to this poem, and The Angel of the World, Catiline, a Tragedy, Sebastian a Spanish Tale, and numerous fugitive pieces, which were published collectively by Colburn in 1830.

The Angel of the World is founded on one of the fictions of the Koran. It is one of the most carefully finished of CROLY's poems, and is given, without abridgment, in this volume. Sebastian is a fine romantic sketch, but in execution is unequal to his other works. I do not know whether Catiline has ever been presented on the stage; probably it has not, though it seems to me better fitted for representation than many very successful pieces.

The conspirator had, according to CICERO, "a multitude, not perhaps so much of virtues, as of approaches to virtues. He was the most extraordinary contradiction on earth; a compound of all opposite qualities. Who could stand higher with honourable men at one time? or, at another, who was more implicated with the worst? He had a wonderful power of bending individuals to his interests; no man could exhibit more zeal; none be more liberal of his public credit, his purse, and, when darker occasions called for it, his whole inven

tion in evil. Austere with the rigid, gay with the gay, grave with the grave, ardent with the young, bold with the bold, and sumptuous with the prodigal : by this singular flexibility and variety of powers he collected around him men of all descriptions, the daring and dissolute, and, at the same time, many of the manly and estimable." CROLY follows CICERO in this estimate of his hero, and thus avoids a resemblance to JONSON, CREBILLON, VOLTAIRE, and other poets who have made the Catilinian conspiracy the subject of tragedies, and adopted the sketch by SALLUST. Whatever may be the merits of Catiline as a play, it is an admirable poem, and would alone have entitled its author to a high rank among his contemporaries.

CROLY has a remarkable splendour of language; he is stately, dignified, and affluent in imagery; but sometimes, from condensation and inversions, obscure; and he is deficient in simplicity and tenderness, which is doubtless the principal reason why his works are so little read.

He is not less distinguished as a prose writer than as a poet. His Salathiel, a Story of the Past, the Present, and the Future, has hardly been surpassed in energy, pathos, or dramatic interest, by any romance of the time; and his Tales of the Great St. Bernard were nearly as attractive and popular. Besides these, he has published a Life of George the Fourth, The Year of Liberation, The Providence of God in the Latter Days, being a New Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St. John, Speeches, and other works in theology, in criticism, and in history, which are in their respective departments original, powerful, and peculiar.

Dr. CROLY has been actively engaged in the discharge of his professional duties most of the time since his return from the Continent. When Lord BROUGHAM was made chancellor he presented him one of the livings in the gift of the crown, and, in 1835, Lord LYNDHURST gave him the rectory of St. Stephens, London, in which he still remains. The degree of Doctor of Laws was conferred upon him by Trinity College, Dublin.

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THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD.

THERE's glory on thy mountains, proud Bengal, When on their temples bursts the morning sun! There's glory on thy marble-tower'd wall, Proud Ispahan, beneath his burning noon! There's glory-when his golden course is done, Proud Istamboul, upon thy waters blue! But fall'n Damascus, thine was beauty's throne, In morn, and noon, and evening's purple dew, Of all from Ocean's marge to mighty Himmalu.

East of the city stands a lofty mount,

Its brow with lightning delved and rent in sunder; And through the fragments rolls a little fount, Whose channel bears the blast of fire and thunder; And there has many a pilgrim come to wonder; For there are flowers unnumber'd blossoming, With but the bare and calcined marble under; Yet in all Asia no such colours spring, No perfumes rich as in that mountain's rocky ring.

And some who pray'd the night out on the hill, Have said they heard-unless it was their dream, Or the mere murmur of the babbling rill,— Just as the morn-star shot its first slant beam, A sound of music, such as they might deem The song of spirits-that would sometimes sail Close to their ear, a deep, delicious stream, Then sweep away, and die with a low wail; Then come again, and thus, till Lucifer was pale. And some, but bolder still, had dared to turn That soil of mystery for hidden gold; But saw strange, stifling blazes round them burn, And died by few that venturous tale was told. And wealth was found; yet, as the pilgrims hold, Though it was glorious on the mountain's brow, Brought to the plain it crumbled into mould, The diamonds melted in the hand like snow; So none molest that spot for gems or ingots now. But one, and ever after, round the hill He stray'd:-they said a meteor scorch'd his sight; Blind, mad, a warning of Heaven's fearful will. 'Twas on the sacred evening of "The Flight," His spade turn'd up a shaft of marble white, Fragment of some kiosk, the chapiter A crystal circle, but at morn's first light Rich forms began within it to appear, Sceptred and wing'd, and then, it sank in water clear.

Yet once upon that guarded mount, no foot But of the Moslem true might press a flower, And of them none, but with some solemn suit Beyond man's help, might venture near the bower: For, in its shade, in beauty and in power, For judgment sat the Angel of the World: Sent by the prophet, till the destined hour That saw in dust Arabia's idols hurl'd, Then to the skies again his wing should be unfurl'd. It came at last. It came with trumpets' sounding, It came with thunders of the atabal, And warrior shouts, and Arab chargers' bounding, The Sacred Standard crown'd Medina's wall! From palace roof, and minaret's golden ball,

Ten thousand emerald banners floated free, Beneath, like sunbeams, through the gateway tall, The emirs led their steel-mail'd chivalry, And the whole city rang with sports and soldier glee.

This was the eve of eves, the end of war, Beginning of Dominion, first of Time! When, swifter than the shooting of a star, Mohammed saw the Vision's" pomp sublime; Swept o'er the rainbow'd sea-the fiery clime, Heard from the throne its will in thunders roll'd; Then glancing on our world of wo and crime, Saw from Arabia's sands his banner's fold Wave o'er the brighten'd globe its sacred, conquer. ing gold.

The sun was slowly sinking to the west, Pavilion'd with a thousand glorious dyes; The turtle-doves were winging to the nest Along the mountain's soft declivities; The fresher breath of flowers began to rise, Like incense, to that sweet departing sun; Faint as the hum of bees the city's cries: A moment, and the lingering disk was gone; Then were the angel's task on earth's dim orbit done.

Oft had he gazed upon that lovely vale, But never gazed with gladness such as now; When on Damascus' roofs and turrets pale He saw the solemn sunlight's fainter glow, With joy he heard the Imauns' voices flow Like breath of silver trumpets on the air; The vintagers' sweet song, the camels' low, As home they stalk'd from pasture, pair by pair, Flinging their shadows tall in the steep sunset glare. Then at his sceptre's wave, a rush of plumes Shook the thick dew-drops from the roses' dyes; And, as imbodying of their waked perfumes, A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes, And flower-crown'd hair, and cheeks of Paradise, Circled the bower of beauty on the wing; And all the grove was rich with symphonies Of seeming flute, and horn, and golden string, That slowly rose, and o'er the Mount hung hovering.

The angel's flashing eyes were on the vault, That now with lamps of diamond all was hung; His mighty wings like tissues heavenly-wrought, Upon the bosom of the air were hung. The solemn hymn's last harmonies were sung, The sun was couching on the distant zone; "Farewell" was breathing on the angel's tongue;— He glanced below. There stood a suppliant one! The impatient angel sank, in wrath, upon his throne. Yet all was quickly sooth'd,—" this labour past,

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The tale it utter'd was a simple tale: "A vow to close a dying parent's eyes Had brought its weary steps from Tripolis; The Arab in the Syrian mountains lay, The caravan was made the robber's prize, The pilgrim's little wealth was swept away, Man's help was vain." Here sank the voice in soft decay.

"And this is earth!" the angel frowning said; And from the ground he took a matchless gem, And flung it to the mourner, then outspread His pinions, like the lightning's rushing beam. The pilgrim started at the diamond's gleam, Glanced up in pray'r, then, bending near the throne, Shed the quick tears that from the bosom stream, And tried to speak, but tears were there alone; The pitying angel said, "Be happy and begone." The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip First dawn'd: then glow'd the young cheek's deeper hue,

Yet delicate as roses when they dip

Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew. Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living blue; Half-shaded by the curls of glossy hair, That turn'd to golden as the light wind threw Their clusters in the western golden glare. Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze Sought from his glance sweet refuge on the ground; But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze; And, as the soul had felt some sudden wound, Her bosom heaved above its silken bound. He look'd again; the cheek was deadly pale; The bosom sank with one long sigh profound; Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil, [its tale. And still one press'd her heart-that sigh told all She stoop'd, and from the thicket pluck'd a flower, And fondly kiss'd, and then with feeble hand She laid it on the footstool of the bower; Such was the ancient custom of the land. Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd; The breezes swept it to the angel's feet;

Yet even that sweet slight boon, 'twas Heaven's command,

He must not touch, from her though doubly sweet, No earthly gift must stain that hallow'd judgment

seat.

Still lay the flower upon the splendid spot,
The pilgrim turn'd away, as smote with shame;
Her eye a glance of self-upbraiding shot;
"T was in his soul, a shaft of living flame.
Then bow'd the humbled one, and bless'd his name,
Cross'd her white arms, and slowly bade farewell.
A sudden faintness o'er the angel came;
The voice rose sweet and solemn as a spell, [veil.
She bow'd her face to earth, and o'er it dropp'd her

Beauty, what art thou, that thy slightest gaze
Can make the spirit from its centre roll;
Its whole long course, a sad and shadowy maze?
Thou midnight or thou noontide of the soul;
One glorious vision lightning up the whole

Of the wide world; or one deep, wild desire, By day and night consuming, sad and sole; Till Hope, Pride, Genius, nay, till Love's own fire, Desert the weary heart, a cold and mouldering pyre.

Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams; Companionship divine, stern solitude; Thou serpent, colour'd with the brightest gleams That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food; Wo to the heart that lets thee once intrude, Victim of visions that life's purpose steal, Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued, Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal. Proud angel, was it thine that mortal wo to feel?

Still knelt the pilgrim cover'd with her veil, But all her beauty living on his eye; Still hyacinth the clustering ringlets fell Wreathing her forehead's polish'd ivory; Her cheek unseen still wore the rose-bud's dye; She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him swell, He glanced around-no Spirit hover'd nighTouch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd [der-peal. What sound has stunn'd his ear? A sudden thun

"farewell."

He look'd on heaven, 't was calm, but in the vale A creeping mist had girt the mountain round, Making the golden minarets glimmer pale; It scaled the mount,-the feeble day was drown'd. The sky was with its livid hue embrown'd, But soon the vapours grew a circling sea, Reflecting lovely from its blue profound Mountain, and crimson cloud, and blossom'd tree; Another heaven and earth in bright tranquillity.

And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe, That like a wild swan sported on the tide. The silken sail that canopied its poop Show'd one that look'd an houri in her pride; Anon came spurring up the mountain's side A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail, That to his country's doubtful battle hied. He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale, And answer'd with his own: for beauty will prevail.

But now in storm uprose the vast mirage; Where sits she now who tempted him to roam ? How shall the skiff with that wild sea engage! In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home. Dark'ning above the piles of tumbling foam, Rushes a shape of wo, and through the roar Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom. Down plunges the chaloupe.-The storm is o'er : Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to the shore.

The angel's heart was smote-but that touch'd flower, [sweet, Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly He felt it strangely chain him to the bower. He dared not then that pilgrim's eye to meet, But gazed upon the small unsandal'd feet Shining like silver on the floor of rose; At length he raised his glance ;-the veil's light Had floated backward from her pencil'd brows, Her eye was fix'd on Heaven, in sad, sublime repose.

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