BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.

SPIRIT of the lonely scene,
Desert shore, and distant sea!
Where man's step hath never been,
Or long hath ceased to be;-
By thy ever saddening shrines
Melancholy's vespers rise,-
There, when daylight calm declines,
She greets thine ear with sighs.

On the Pyramids sublime,

Towering o'er a thousand graves,—
Landmarks in the sea of Time,
Long wasted by its waves:
On the mystic, mouldering cone,
Hooded in the night of eld,
Thou hast fixed thine awful throne,
And silent empire held.

Gleaming high on Greenland's coast,
Where the polar star doth gem
Mountain pinnacles of frost,

Hoar Winter's diadem,

List'st thou to the rending roar
Of the ice upon the seas,
And howl of monsters from the shore,
Borne on the midnight breeze!

Or dost thou rather love to dwell
Where the lordly lion roams,
Whose awful voice, a nightly knell,

Peals through Palmyra's domes?

Or where majestic Babel lies

Buried in oblivious gloom,

Whose tower hath crumbled from the skies Into a desert tomb!

From thy deep and dread repose,

'Midst primeval, starless Night,
Didst thou start when God arose
And said-"Let there be light!"
Spirit! yet there comes a day

To restore thine ancient reign,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
And all be thine again!

Literary Souvenir.

THE CYPRESS TREE.

A slender tree upon a height in lonely beauty towers,
So dark, as if it only drank the rushing thunder-showers;
When birds were at their evening hymns, in thoughtful reverie,
I've marked the shadows deep and long from yonder cypress tree.

I've thought of Oriental tombs, of silent cities, where
In many a row the cypress stands, in token of despair!

And thought, beneath the evening star, how many a maiden crept
From life's discordant scene, and o'er the tomb in silence wept.

I've thought, thou lonely cypress tree, thou hermit of the grove, How many a heart, alas! is doomed forlorn on earth to rove; When all that charmed the morn of life, and cheered the youthful mind,

Have like the sunbeams passed away, and left but clouds behind!

Thou wert a token unto me, thou stem with dreary leaf,
So desolate thou look'st, as earth were but a home of grief!

A few short years shall swiftly glide, and then thy boughs shall wave,

When tempests beat, and breezes sigh, above

Blackwood's Magazine.

my

silent grave!

A

STANZAS..

BY THE LATE BISHOP HEBER.

IF thou wert by my side, my love!
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning grey,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide;

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss, thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on!-then on !-where duty leads,

My course be onward still,

O'er broad Indostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain,

For sweet the bliss us both awaits,

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay,

As then shall meet in thee!

DOMESTIC LOVE.

DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side

Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,

Shining along through banks with harebells dyed;

And many a bird to warble on the wing,

When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O, love of loves!-to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key!
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,
When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed-for ever closed thy plume!

AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, ESQ.

THOUGH ages long have past,

Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins;
And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame

By its chains?

While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of Heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host;
While these with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,

And from rock to rock repeat,

Round our coast!

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,

Between, let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the sun;

Yet still from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,—

More audible than speech,

We are one!