In clouds across the sky;

Hope toss'd her plumes, and kindly brush'd The tear that to my eye-lid rush'd;

My love herself was nigh.

Oh! memory, what a night was there-
"Twas cold and still-but bright and fair;
A spirit sat beside me

An angel form that seem'd to say
"With thee forever I will stay,

Whatever may betide thee." "Twas such a lovely night as this, But colder far, and brighter,

Our lips first met-that icy bliss-
"Twas like the north winds hasty kiss,
But quicker-keener-lighter.
Away, distracting visions! leave me
Such pictures-ah, they only grieve me.

And yet one moment memory stay,
And smile again that misty ray
That sadden'd last upon my sight-
That wat❜ry lustre shining cold,
And chill, and faint, hath often told
My mounting heart-that all thy light
Was but the cheerless beam of night.

My web of life seem'd once of flame,

So thick were starry joys strew'd o'erit;

But with'ring disappointment came

And stole the glowing robe, and wore it; She sprinkled o'er its texture, care, And clouds and woe-and scatter'd there, The doubtful shadows of despair. Yet still-thou dear bewitching dream! The bright spots flash'd a brighter gleamAnd hopes, that seem'd but joys in light, Seem'd extacies amid that nightNo more, dear memory-it is strange, That thou should'st lead me such a range.

I felt the beam of thy bright eye
Falling so soft, so-si-lent-ly,
It seem'd like inspiration's spark-
'Tis gone-it perish'd in the dark,
And only leaves a deeper gloom,
Like flint-fire waken'd in a tomb,
Could this be fleeting mem'ries glance,
That led my heart this wild'ring dance?
It flash'd across my lonely breast,
A beam on ice-it froze to rest.
I thought some little warmth I felt,
But 'twas not vital-could not melt,
'Twas like that cold, unlovely beam
That lights some wintry mountain stream,
That shines across the trav'llers way,
And smiles to lure his feet astray.
Its glow but flash'd—a feverish light
To settle in a deeper night.

Like the warm hectic of the skies,

That blushes-burns-and faints-and dies.

N.

To the Editors,

I hand you a small extract from an unpublished Romance, written with a view to depict the character of the mania pathetica. The supposition of the ⚫ existence of spirits, in the nether world, is an hallucination of the maniac, and not of him who portrays her. But although the author neither believes in the Archeus of Van Helmont, nor in the inferences so plainly to be drawn from the philosophy of Dr. Reid, yet he believes, that the agency of beings intermediate between us and the Creator in all our necessary acts, is what philosophy will never have the hardihood to deny, or the folly to attempt to prove.

The disease of Marie is ex tristitia metuque. The first extract from the poem, will explain its cause:

To him who owns a nerve of steel,

To him it is a joy to feel,

For novelty can raise a glow

Of pleasure, though the cause be woe;
But in that breast where sorrows reign,
E'en joy itself is wont to pain.

Oh! in that breast which rapturous soars,
How cold the flood which sorrow pours.
The tenderest plant will flourish fair,
Beneath the gard'ner's constant care,
But planted wild-the noon-day heat
Will bow it to the traveller's feet;
But planted wild-the evening chill
Will pale the leaf-the blossom kill.
Marie.

Does thy ear ne'er list'ning bend
To the sounds which spirits send!
Stranger were thy bright eyes veil'd
To their phantoms when they sail'd
On the moon-beam's tender light,
On the planet's twinkle bright?
I will tell thee what they sung
On yester-eve-but spirits' tongue,
O hadst thou heard the charming sound,
As they wheel'd their measur'd round.
Song of the Spirits.

We thy coolness ne'er inspire,
Nor our lungs extract thy fire,
Yet entranc'd the spirit sings,
Borne upon thy balmy wings.

Chorus.

'Tis ours to guide the flutt'ring heart,
To wake the feeling from its sleep,
"Tis ours to bid the tear-drop start,
To draw the sigh from sorrow's deep.

TO MEMORY.

Can mem'ry ever for a moment dwell
Upon those scenes where we in childhood play'd;
Can she forget the emotions, wont to swell,
Our little breasts, while innocent we stray'd.

No, mem❜ry never can so treach❜rous prove.
No power can ever banish from the breast
The thoughts of those with whom we us'd to rove;
The thoughts-of other days when we were bless'd.

Day's of my childhood, to my heart still dear,
If but a sound on evening's gale doth swell,
A sound, that in that season pleas'd my ear,
How is my soul absorb'd in mem'ry's spell!

There's not a spot my infant feet have prest,
There's not a little gentle bubbling rill,
Upon whose bank, where weary I would rest,
That pleas'd me young, but what can please me still.

To thee, O memory, half our bliss we owe,
And half our pleasures follow in thy train;
For tho' life's cup with sorrow ever flow;
Thou bring'st past joys to banish present pain.

K. C. J.

SONG.

Tune,-"Meeting of the waters."

That rose-bud has faded you gave me last night,
But its breath grew the richer, the nearer decay;
"Tis so with affection, with hope and delight,
They gain on the heart as their glow melts away.

While that bright little bud was yet blushing in dew,
While it trembled and burnt in the pride of its dye,
"Twas the blossom of love, when its beauties are new
Its fragrance is fiercest, and warmest its sigh.

Then its smile it is true, was most lovely and bright,
But it scorn'd to retain for a moment those tears
That hallow'd its bloom; when by ev'ning's pale light,
You had breath'd on its bosom your hopes and your fears

But when it had faded, it treasured that dew,

And close to its bosom clung each fainting leaf,
As conscious it clos'd on a relick of you,
For one who could prize it in joy and in grief.

A.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

To our correspondents "C." and "R.” we beg leave most respectfully to observe, that we cannot admit either of their Essays, consistently with the rule which we have established, to take no part in the discussion of controverted points of Religion or Politicks. The Essays are both extremely well written; and that of "R." more particularly, is managed in a masterly manner. But we trust, that the writers will concur with us, that a work such as ours, devoted exclusively to matters of Literature and Science, is not the proper place, for the introduction of such subjects.-The Essays have both been returned to the place from which we received them.

We confess ourselves much indebted to "H." for the trouble which he has taken, to expose a "literary theft by the lump," in the last No. of this Magazine. But while we acknowledge our obligations to him for the detection, we must add, in justice to the writer of the piece in question, that it was published without his consent or knowledge; and that we can have