ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON. BY A LADY. KNOW'ST thou the land of the mountain and flood, And her young ones are rock'd on the high Cairn- Know'st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea, Where the wild-fire of genius first caught thy young soul, And thy feet, as thy fancy, rov'd free from con- Ah! why does thy fancy still dwell on those climes crimes; Where courage itself is more savage than brave, Speak peace to the voice of suspicion and fear? Or aught that is beauteous in nature impart, Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell. And is there no charm on thine own native earth? Does no talisman shine on the place of thy birth? Are the daughters of Scotia less worthy thy care, Less soft than Zuleika, less kind than Gulnare ? Are her sons less renown'd, or her warriors less brave, Than the slaves of a prince who himself is a slave? Then strike thy wild harp, let it swell with the strain, Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again : Their deeds and their glory thy lay will prolong, And the fame of thy country will live in thy song. The proud wreath of vict'ry round heroes may twine, 'Tis the poet adorns them with laurels divine : And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb, Had the bard not preserv'd them immortal in bloom. ELEGY On a very amiable Young Lady, of distinguished musical excellence. Written at the approach of winter. DR THOMAS BROWN. O SPARE this simple turf of love, The bloom, that smiles and sighs above, O call not here thy blasts to rave! That strain is hush'd to mortal ear,- The voice which heav'n might love to hear,- O thou, whose smile in gladness came, The wit, which once could teach the wise, And charm even grief, till grief were gay,Ah! shall it now to memory rise, Like dreams of sorrow far away? How oft my heart has breathless glow'd, ་ Then, while my soul, which o'er thee hung, Yet, ah! even then, that charm so fleet Who, who could gaze on thee, and drink Nor fades it now,-I feel it yet,- When sleep, in visions of the sky, While yet my half-wak'd sense shall thrill, Even earthly airs,-if song again Can charm this breast,-thy thought shall wake; And Music's saddest, dearest strain Be softer, dearer,-for thy sake. A NIGHT SCENE. MR PERCIVAL, AN AMERICAN POET. SOFTLY the moon-light Is shed on the lake; Is heard from afar; List ye! O, list! To the lively guitar. Trees cast a mellow shade Softly and tenderly See the light pinnace Draws nigh to the shore; Swiftly it glides At the heave of the oar; Cheerily plays On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer The lively guitar. Now the wind rises, And ruffles the pine, Ripples, foam-crested, Like diamonds shine; In the wake of the moon Bounding from billow Like a wild swan, is seen Of the gondolier's song. And high on the stern Stands the young and the brave, |