SKEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl-

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips-she knew not why-
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As though its sweetness soon would die.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PURE as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By JORDAN's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance, which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they
die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeath'd, in dying, to our souls by thee-
So shall the love we bore thee, cherish'd warm
Within our souls through grief, and pain, and
strife,

Be, like ELISHA's cruise, a holy charm,

Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.,

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

Brighton, June, 1825. Tis life, dear Corry, who can doubt ?Resembles much friend Ewart's' wine, When first the rosy drops come out,

How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint,

So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would ever come.

1 A wine-merchant

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,

Whatever statesmen did or said,

If not exactly brought about, "Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP, if Russia went to war,

"Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar― (Vide his pamphlet―price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all but Frenchmen think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King,

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO

WHAT shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remember'd well
As though it shone but yesterday,
When, loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring-sun, I heard, o'erhead,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise

As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise ;-
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye, whose lustre broke-
Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy,

Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all!
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain

Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again

Of the fresh light those moments cast.