SONNET.

Not as in colder climes, with stealthy pace,
And unobserved encroachment on the light,
Glides o'er Italian shores the tranquil Night;
While in the west our ling’ring eyes may trace
Day's sweet farewell and upward shooting rays ;
Her rapid strides have crossed the Eastern height,
And even from amid the sunset bright,
Eve's lovely planet gems the golden haze,
And scarce the vision of descending day
Retreating from the gazer's wistful eye
Hath passed its briny and crystalline bars,
Ere violet darkness fills the depth of sky,
And Night hath mounted to her topmost sway,
With all her silent retinue of Stars.

THE BRIDE OF GLENGARE.

FAREWELL Glengare! I ask thee not

To stay and bless me still,
The pleasure were too dearly bought,

That's bought against thy will !

Had thy frail heart but sought of me,

The toils of war to share ;
How had I braved them all with thee,

To fix that heart, Glengare !

Away! away! to sword and shield

The pennon streams on high ; Thou lov'st the music of the field,

But not the lover's sigh.

I see the helmet gird thy brows,

Love's garland is not there;
O where are all thy golden vows,

To me thy bride, Glengare ?

Farewell Glengare ! another hand

May wipe away thy tear ; The sadness of a distant land,

Another's smile may cheer.

But never more, though smiles abound,

And Beauty's heaven be there; O never more shall one be found To love like me, Glengare !

R.L.

LINES

SENT TO A LADY WITH A CUP AND BALL.

BY THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND, A. M.

DEAR MADAM, WILL you deign to accept of this fanciful present, More fair and more solid than Partridge or Pheasant ; Although in my Cups I hope ne'er to be seen, And myself am too grave for a dance on your green, Yet with strange inconsistency, (critics will say,) Both with Cup and with Ball I invite you to play ; But my Cup is so harmless, my Ball is so quiet, I fear not the charge of inviting to riot,My Cup to the head no harm will impart, Nor my Ball with its pleasures inveigle your heart, You may fearless accept it-its innocent powers, Will with safety beguile your occasional hours.

THE FALL OF THE ROSSBERG.

THESE lines were prompted by the following dreadful catastrophe, which happened on the 2d of September, 1806. That side of the mountain called Rouffiberg or Rossberg, which is towards the lake of Lowertz and mount Righi, having been much bulged out by the snows of the previous winter, and particularly by the torrents of rain, which had fallen during the summer and autumn following, began to crack on the morning of the above eventful day, and on the same evening gave way with a frightful crash, overwhelming, with its debris, no fewer than five villages, of which Goldau is the largest, and converting the smiling and fertile valley, in which they were situated, into a perpetual desolation.

Dim rose the sun, with cheerless ray,
Or Goldau's last, sepulchral day,
And Lowertz' bosom, white with spray,

Was heaving angrily.

Heard ye, on that eventful morn,
Those dismal sounds, prophetic borne
On the wild blast, that seemed to mourn

O'er Goldau's destiny?