ON VISITING THE DESERTED GARDEN OF FRIENDS IN THE COUNTRY.

THE morning smiles on these deserted walls, But no bright lustre cheers the lonely halls, Strong bolts and bars exclude th' accustom'd guest,

By friendship lur'd, by constant kindness blest, Who came with gladness, pleas'd, prolong'd his

stay,

Reluctant rose, and grateful went his way.

Fair o'er those winding paths the sun-beam plays, But no light footstep o'er their verdure strays, Still the strong pillars hold the mounting vines, Round the white arch the clasping tendril twines, The garden smiles, the roses breathe perfume,* The myrtle blows, but who shall watch their bloom ?

The purple plumbs, the untrodden alley strew, The peach lies blushing in the nightly dew, The fallen apple, in its rind of gold,

Shines, softens, and returns to kindred mould,

*The monthly roses then in bloom.

Save what the roving boys, in truant hour, Snatch with rash hand, with eager haste devour, And gazing sadly on the loaded tree,

Grieve that such sweets should e’er untasted be.

Clos'd are those blinds thro' which I us'd to trace

The smiling features of * * * * * *'s face,
And when no more I hear her accents say,
"Come in, my friend, O yet, a moment stay;"
No sound is heard amid the silent view,
Save the lone kitten's long, despairing mew,
My lay responsive joins the dismal strain,
As sad and slow, I wander back again.

Yet though your loss, dear friends, I daily mourn, And selfish sorrow sometimes 66 says, return," Still the rash word mature reflection blames, And back the quick, unfinish'd sentence claims; No! stay, and view those scenes with beauty fraught,

Joy in the charms your tasteful care has wrought, Rest in the shades of innocence and ease,

Catch the pure spirit of the mountain breeze, And taste those rapturous hours, not often known, Which nature sheds on virtue's friends alone.

But when drear Autumn's stern and nipping air Shall strip the heights of Montevideo bare,

And when brown and shapeless foliage flies,
Smit by the fury of the rending skies,
Before the hoary frost, and snowy flake,
Shall bind the billow of the gentle lake,
Oh, haste, the joys of other climes to prove,
Haste, to the genial warmth of social love;
Draw the strong bolts, that bar the entrance free,
To the fair dome of hospitality,

Cheer with reviving smiles a pensive train,
And make the eye of friendship bright again.

THE employment of transcribing, and the various con cerns of a school, having rendered it almost impossible to invent or arrange any thing new, gave rise to the following effusion.

THE DESERTION OF THE MUSE.

"TWAS night! but by an airy form,

My eye was waking kept,

Which gliding near me, seem'd to seek
The pillow where I slept.

She strove to frown, but still her brow
Was innocent and mild;

And though her words were somewhat stern,
Their tones were sweet and wild.

"Cast not," she said, "a stranger's glance; Not thus we us'd to greet,

We know each other well, although,
Of late we seldom meet.

I saw you, when a child you sat,
And ponder'd o'er the fire;

And deign'd to stoop that you might see,
And try to reach my lyre.

You prest its strings with so much joy,
And such a smile serene,

I fondly hop'd you soon would learn,
What gratitude might mean.

Amid your light domestic toils,
I rov'd with footstep free,
And oft you laid your needle down,

To take the pen from me.

When lonely, pausing o'er your book,

You walk'd at close of day,

Well pleas'd to trace my dawning smile,
You threw that page away.

I met you in my mountain dress,
And sandals wet with dew,
All unadorn'd, and yet I thought
That I was fair to you.

My lyre was often out of tune,

Its tones were rude and small,
Yet were they e'er so weak or rough,
You gladly heard them all.

But now how chang'd! for when I smile,
And bring my sweetest rhyme,

You coldly bid me go my way,
And come another time.'

For you must stay to copy off"
And polish what you wrote,
And try to soften if you can
My unharmonious note.

Even when I come, in all my charms,

To catch your fickle view,

You, starting, turn your back, and cry, The clock is striking two.'

Now, what has two, or nine o'clock

To do with you and me ?

And what delights you in your school,
I'm sure I cannot see.