lous lustre, that the poet might fancy its patron goddess envied the beauteous orb of her chaste rival Diana,and all the fair lights of the firmament bespangling its canopy with their thousand glories.

Oh! can there be on earth a pleasure more exquisite than to look on such a scene with her we love? To stand by the boundless ocean, or the island-studded lake, and see the wide silvery sheet of light that falls across its trembling surface, and the masses of alternate brightness and shade that variegate the tops of the thick groves which cover its banks,—to turn from the lovely sight and look down upon the lovelier face of her who is by our side-to watch her bright blue, soul-revealing eye, stedfastly fixed on the pale orb, and beaming with mild innocence and confiding love,

"As though that planet were an urn,'
From which her eyes drank liquid light;"

-to see those flaxen ringlets, undisturbed by the slightest breeze, falling in rich and clustering luxuriance down that expressive face,-to stand with that fair form gently resting on our arm, too happy, too full of pure yet intoxicating bliss, to break the speaking silence which is round us, and then

"Yielding to the soft

And balmy evening's influence,
The silent breathing of the flowers,
The melting light that beams above,"

to press that soft, small, white hand to the heart that throbs so quickly and violently, as the gentle touch thrills through every vein,-and to clasp that light form to the breast that "beats true to her own,"-to breathe gently forth the passion we never dared to express before, and imprint the first, long, warm, burning kiss of love on the ruby lips that are too kind to chide our presumption.

But ah! I must pause ;-all this is but the dream of fancy, and, though I could revel on in such delightful thoughts, I must check my fond anticipations, to deplore again the folly which prevents my actual enjoyment of such pleasure.

I have wrought myself into what I know is a most absurd belief, but from which I find it impossible now to disengage myself, that moonlight and nightingales are absolutely necessary to assist me in the declaration of my love. For a whole month last summer, I regularly besought my pretty Maria to walk out with me every evening, and when I prevailed upon her to consent to my request, I regularly led her, where I hoped the nightingale's song and the moon light on the trees would impart to me inspiration and courage, sufficient to "pop the question." But alas! there was always something to thwart my intention: sometimes Maria could not go, and this always happened when I felt most courageous: sometimes the provoking moon would not shine at all, or, if she did, through a dull mist only equalled by that in which my own senses were

enveloped; or else, when the moon was just as I could wish, the ill-natured nightingales would not deign to warble a single strain, to serve as a key-note upon which I might commence my tender supplications; or, (more distressing still,) when nightingales were singing by dozens, and loud enough to stun one, and the moon brighter than a hundred gas lamps, when my introductory sentence was actually quivering upon the very tip of my tongue, Maria would declare that the dew, (deuce take that confounded dew,) was so very heavy that she must hasten in, or her mother would blame her for her imprudence. Now who could possibly make an offer to a lady who would fill up every pause in the tender avowal with a protestation that her shoes were very wet, or who might be expected to answer every pathetic intreaty with a shiver or a sneeze? Though the time for "lovers to breathe their vows,' and for "ladies to hear them," is certainly night, yet the less "dew upon the boughs" there is, the more comfortable for both parties; or both, (most unromantic and love-destroying thought!) may the next day be confined by severe colds.

I could mention many other instances in which Fate has cruelly thwarted my purpose, but I can feel little pleasure in telling of my own misfortunes, especially when, as was sometimes the case, I can blame nobody as the cause of them but myself. The only consolation which I possess under them is, that Maria has never yet, I trust, perceived my ineffectual efforts to express

eyes.

my feelings, and that I do not yet look foolish in her This flattering hope supports me under my trial, and encourages me in my determination, (made for the hundredth time, but now for the first time expressed,) that, as soon as an eligible opportunity offers, I will, "wind and tide permitting," launch boldly off into the very middle of my subject, and fearlessly "pop the question."

H. S.

HELEN'S TOMB.

BY THE LATE ROBERT POLLOK, A. M.

Author of the "Course of Time."

AT morn a dew-bathed rose I past,
All lovely on its native stalk,
Unmindful of the noon-day blast,

That strew'd it on my evening's walk.

So, when the morn of life awoke,

My hopes sat bright on fancy's bloom,
Forgetful of the death-aimed stroke,
That laid them in my Helen's tomb.

Watch there, my hopes! watch Helen's sleep,

Nor more with sweet-lipped fancy rave,

But with the long grass sigh, and weep

At dewy eve by Helen's grave!

TWILIGHT.

A FRAGMENT.

THE Sun hath set behind a hill,
The heaven of other climes to light,
And Twilight hovers o'er me still,

Soft shadow cast from coming night.
Who hath not felt in this brief hour
The joys of thought-Reflection's power?
Who but has turn'd from Life's turmoil,
The thirst of gain-ambition's toil,
To ponder much with soften'd heart,
In moments given like these to part

Night's revels from the wrangling day,

And future pain from sorrows pass'd away!

ON POETRY.

Ye Bards! who worship yet the Nine,
No longer bow before their shrine !
Your lips are touch'd with such a fire
As waked in heav'n Isaiah's lyre,

And visions bright of holy joy

That ever shone on Jesse's boy!

Think not to trifle with your power,

To spend for nought your mental dower;

Oh! never say the Poet's mind

Is only form'd to please mankind,

Ye! who with words can sway the will,

And all a world with passion thrill!

J. P.