The zephyr bound,

The golden crowned

And rushy-covered foreland height,
Is circled by the sea-bird's flight.

'Midst blushing flowers

And close-'twined bowers, And fountain's drops with gems that vie, The hermit's cell salutes the eye.

Lighting the warrior's sunken tomb

Where spirits seem to haunt the gloom.

WRITTEN ON THE

ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH-NIGHT,

When entering my Thirtieth Year.

BY EUGENIUS ROCHE.

ANOTHER twined!my wreath of years
Grows full and heavy on my brow;
My spring is past, and summer now
In all its blaze of soul appears.
Forsake me not, Almighty Guide!

Amid the tempests of the hour!
Thy mercy bade me gently glide
O'er infancy's and youth's wild tide;
And now when fiercer dangers lower,

Oh! let me on thy pinion ride"
Unharmed amid the fiery shower!

Thou know'st my infant eye
First oped to Thee!

Thou know'st my infant sigh

First rose to Thee!

Thou know'st, in peace or strife,
The day and night of life,

My hope is linked to Thee !

A thousand stars are in the sky,
-And not a cloud obscures their light;

They flash, as rays of bliss on high,
That stray to mortal sight;

And yet perhaps no human eye

But mine, now wakes to drink the glories of the night!

A thousand gales are on the wing;
And while in torpor long an 1 deep,
Earth and her millions sleep,

Instinct with life and mystic sound,

Like wandering harps they fling

Wild melodies around.

And yet perhaps no human ear

But mine, now wakes the thrilling notes to hear!

"And why so wakeful is thine eye,

So vigilant thine ear?

Art thou a spirit of the sky,

Chained for a moment here,

And struggling for thy liberty?"

On such a night my bonds were tied,
And I became a son of earth:
On such a night my thoughts may glide
To Him who gives immortal birth.—
O Father! when my task is o'er,
And earth may check my flight no more,
Let, in bridal garments drest,

My spirit come, a pardoned guest!
I do not ask for bliss below,

Nor e'en for short reprieve from woe;-
I ask for Thee!-the First, the last,

The God that shall not pass-that hath not passed!

Now, farewell night! Thy shadows fly,
Mingling with my former years;
The dawn of other days appears—
The sabbath of my life is nigh!

THE FELON.

BY MRS. GILBERT.

CHILD of dishonour, guilt, and shame,
Lorn outcast from thy kind,

Whose passion's rage no voice could tame,
Whose arm no law could bind,

That human breast, all fiend within,

And scorched, and blackening still with sin,

Where art thou? Does some shattered shed

Thy guilty haunt conceal?

There dost thou shake at human tread,

And dread the rattling wheel?

By night, a wanderer pale and drear-
By day, a fearworn tenant here?

Or dost thou, from yon prison's grate,
Send forth the fitful yell?

Condemned a few short hours to wait
Alive in that sad cell,

Then, with convulsive heave, to rend

This mortal curtain, and descend!