But still in upright deeds appearing, No other comfort would it borrow; Repeated shocks far failed in searing,

Or binding up the "Heart of Sorrow."
It knew no pride, but pride of soul-
A pride which even angels love;
It knew no law-own'd no control,

But claim'd affiance with the dove.
Yet, bled it freely, from each dart

Of Slander's bow, and Slander's smart; Tho' giant Pride, in strength appearing, Mark'd the tear through many a furrow; Still-oh! still-devoid of fearing,

Boldly beats this "Heart of Sorrow."

It beat-Affliction long had worn

Those tender strings which health impart,
And many a brutal hand had torn

The reeking ruins of that heart.
And must the string of haggard Care,
Without sweet Hope, still fester there?
Would it were still, or void of feeling!

Grief drew the bow, its peace to sever,
Inflicting wounds past ever healing :-

It twang’d—and then it trembled ever. It beat—for ev'ry silken vein

Rent, where'er the arrow flew; Its finest chords respons'd the strain Which Discord set, and Malice drew; For then its strings were loosen'd all, As wither'd leaves in autumn fall. But Hope still whisper'd (woe forgetting) "The sun of joy may rise to-morrow; "Its cheering beams, tho' now the're setting, "Will yet light up that Heart of Sorrow.""

ORIGINAL POETRY.

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF THE NEW YEAR.

By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson, author of

"Melancholy Hours," and "Astarte:" WHEN my thoughts dwell upon the fleeting year, That in an hour will pass for ever by ;Mem'ry, fond mem'ry, wakens many a tear, And my breast swells with many a pensive sigh. I do not kneel before the sainted shrine With vain professions-only sworn to break; Since well I know this erring heart of mine, Is all too weak, with truth, such vows to make! Yet may it, when the year has circled round, And I again review the scene that's past— Still, still, as free from perjury be found, And from intended evil as the last! Warm, open, thonghtless-early led astray, Ere reason bloom'd, when life and hope were new, By Fancy's power;-I fondly deem'd the way Of life would realize what Fancy drew. This was the snare, the spell that did deceive, And led my wand'ring heart astray awhile ;Till soon I found Fancy but lures to leave The ruin'd wretch, that banquets on her smile;

THE BIRTH OF POESY.

BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.

RAMBLING on a summer's day,
Little Cupid lost his way

In a thicket's silent shade,

Where roses blush'd, and fountains play'd.
He wander'd up and down, and round,
It seem'd to him like fairy ground;
For nature, in her happiest hours,
Had rais'd the rose-embosom'd bowers.
With gay luxuriance, wild and sweet,
The canopying branches meet;
The winding waters, bright and clear,
Melodiously meet his ear;

The flowers from nature's hand seem new,
Just blooming in their earliest hue,
And spangl'd with the morning dew.
So sweet a spot his fancy captur'd,
He found his little heart enraptur'd.
Cytherea's groves no fragrance knew,
More sweet than here around him flew.
"Who owns this paradise?" he cried,
For not a form he'd yet espy'd,
And not an echo, far or near,
Came murmuring on his list'ning ear;
Nought but the gently floating breeze,
That shook the fragrance from the trees→→→
Nought but the silv'ry fountains playing,
The bubbling rill a-down hill straying.
New charms arose at ev'ry view,
Still more enamour'd Cupid grew;
"Oh! could it be my favour'd lot,
"To gain this little heavenly spot-
(He clasp'd his hands, with sparkling eyes)
"I would for ever quit the skies!"
And yet, perchance, he might not win it,
What place was it? who liv'd in it?
He thought of all the Gods he knew,
But then he knew their dwellings too.
"This charming spot must surely be,
"By gracious Jove reserv'd for me!"
At length, upon a flow'ry bank,
Little Love in slumber sank-
But his presence, blandly bright,
Spread around him new delight.
A richer bue the shades invest,
More sweet the waters lull'd to rest,
And all around the God confest.
The scented myrtle breath'd more sweet,
Expanding Cupid's touch to meet;
The rose more gay its bosom spread,
The graceful lily rais'd its head-
E'en the daisy's slender stem,
Rose erect with its little gem.

Beauty's brightest glow was flushing,
Thro' founts and flowers bright and blushing.

Solitude, who swiftly stept,

Nor rous'd the timid hare that slept
Securely in the sylvan groves,
Where the lonely damsel roves,
Soft advancing, gain'd the shade,
Where slumb'ring Cupid sweetly laid,
Surpris'd, she paus'd, and sparkling joy
Stole to her eyes as she view'd the boy;
For ne'er did glowing fancy trace
So much beauty, so much grace.
The eye of soul and fire was elos'd,
But the transparent lid repos'd,
With silken lash, so long, so bright,
It could but veil a heavenly light.
The ringlets of his radiant hair,
Wav'd playful o'er his forehead fair;
Descending to a neck of snow,
Where faintly blue the clear veins flow;
And such a blush suffus'd his cheeks,
As bright Aurora's rise bespeaks-
And deep'ning on his lovely lips,
Sweet in her dew their softness dips.
His beauty innocence united,
Timid Solitude delighted;
And softly on her knee descending,
Gazing on him, o'er him bending,
From her velvet lip of dew,
O'er Cupid's cheek a warm sigh flew:
Tho' breath'd so soft, it wak'd the God,
Who, springing from the flow'ry sod,
Pursu'd the fair affrighted maid,
Who swiftly sought the inmost shade.
O'ertaken-Cupid's charms and art,
Won her young unpractis'd heart;
And laughing at her vain alarms,
She sunk into his rosy arms-
Avowing, had she paus'd to view
Those radiant eyes of heavenly hue,
They had deny'd her power of flight,
And fear had fled in mute delight.
From this union sprung a child,
Like her father, fair and wild;
Nurs'd by Fancy and the Nine,
She early caught the spark divine.
They early taught the little fair,
To pour the gay and tender air;
And soon so well she touch'd the lyre,
As would transport her list'ning sire-
He would cry, entranc'd with pleausure,
"Wake, oh! wake, that flowing measure-
"Worthy love, and worthy thee,
"Sing my little Poesy!"

And often when, on wandering bent,
Thoughtless Cupid rambling went,
She learn'd a soft and plaintive air,
To soothe her lonely mother's care.
Thus her little song would flow,
In sympathy with joy or woe.
But tho' she lov'd to pour the song,
Her mother's sylvan shades among-
Beneath the pale and moonlight beam,
To wander by the winding stream;
Or rising with the blush of dawn,
To catch the glories of the morn➡

To cull the sweetest, wildest flowers, To wreathe around her mother's bowersTo form fresh garlands for her hair, And place them on her brow so fair; Yet oft she would, forsaking these, Climb to catch the mountain breezeAscend the rough and rugged steep, Impending o'er the vasty deepOn its grand and sullen brow To pay the rising morn her vow; Or when the gathering tempest frown'd, And lurid darkness lower'd round, She lov'd to catch the forked flashTo hear the swelling billows dash, The thunders roll along the sky, And caverns echo in replyTo view the eddying whirlpool curl, Or whirlwinds ruin round them hurl. Proud of his child, ambitious Love Bore her to the realms above. The sacred Synod were assembl'd, Sweet Poesy advanc'd and trembl'd : Great Jove rose high above the rest, Receiv'd the timid lovely guest. "Be hence," he cried, "this gentle fair, "Ye Gods our own peculiar care : "Bright Venus take her to thy arms, "Her softest song shall sing thy charms; "Minerva, let thy wisdom teach

"Her strains thy grandest themes to reach ; "So shall she join the heavenly choir, “And aid divine Apollo's lyre." In mute assent the Gods obey'd, Cupid again receiv'd the maid: She bow'd as awful Jove retir'd, The rising Gods her grace admir'd; Passing the heavenly powers, she bent, And, led by Love, to Venus went.

THE REPLY.

WHAT Seraph's voice now bids me cease All further murm'ring? whispers Peace : "No more, presumptuous youth, repine, "But meekly bow to pow'r divine." 'Tis one who ne'er hath sorrow known, Whose days in perfect bliss have flownWhose spring of life, serenely bright, Glides on in pure and calm delight— Of all that Heav'n can give possest, With beauty, health, and talents blest. Who talks of friendship, soothing smile, And would my sorrow thus beguile ? 'Tis one who ne'er hath felt the sting That treach'ry and deceit can bringWho ne'er hath felt the mildew blight, On all her fondest hopes alight. A tale I could-I would unfold, But 'tis a tale must ne'er be told: Had'st thou been 'reft of all that's dear, Borne all that I have borne, 1 fear Thou, too, would'st murmur, and, with cause, Complain of fate's unequal laws.

UN MALHEUREUX.