ERATO.1

Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipp'd queen of poesy,

Sweet ERATO, thou whose chords

Waken but for love-touch'd words!

Never other crown be mine

Than a flower link'd wreath of thine;
Green leaves of the laurel tree

Are for bards of high degree;
Better rose or violet suit

With thy votary's softer lute.

Not thine those proud lines that tell

How kings ruled, or heroes fell;
But that low and honey tone
So peculiarly Love's own;
Music such as the night breeze
Wakens from the willow trees;
Such as murmurs from the shell,
Wave-kiss'd in some ocean cell;
Tales sweet as the breath of flowers,
Such as in the twilight hours

The young Bard breathes; and also thine
Those old memories divine,

Fables Grecian poets sung

When on Beauty's lips they hung,

Till the essenced song became

Like that kiss, half dew, half flame.
Thine each frail and lovely thing,
The first blossoms of the spring:
Violets, ere the sunny ray
Drinks their fragrant life away;
Roses, ere their crimson breast
Throws aside its green moss vest;
Young hearts, or ere toil or care
Or gold has left a world-stain there.
Thine, too, other gifts above,
Every sign and shape of love-
Its first smile, and its first sigh,
Its hope and its despondency,
Its joy, its sorrow-all belong
To thy dear delicious song.
Fair ERATO, vow'd to thee,
If a lute like mine may be
Offer'd at thy myrtle shrine,
Lute and heart and song are thine.
Broken be my treasured lute,
Be its every number mute,
Ere a single chord should waken,
If by thee or Love forsaken.
Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipp'd queen of poesy!

TIME ARRESTING THE CAREER OF PLEASURE.

Stay thee on thy wild career,

Other sounds than mirth's are near;
Spread not those white arms in air;
Fling those roses from thy hair;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals' beat;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff:
Hear my voice of warning, hear—

Stay thee on thy wild career!

Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now;

Roses laugh upon thy brow;

Radiant are thy starry eyes;
Spring is in the crimson dyes

O'er which thy dimpled smile is wreathing;
Incense on thy lip is breathing;

Light and Love are round thy soul

But thunder-peals o'er June-skies roll;
Even now the storm is near-

Then stay thee on thy mad career!

Raise thine eyes to yonder sky,
There is writ thy destiny!

Clouds have vail'd the new moonlight;
Stars have fallen from their height;
These are emblems of the fate
That waits thee-dark and desolate!
All morn's lights are now thine own,
Soon their glories will be gone;
What remains when they depart?
Faded hope, and wither'd heart:
Like a flower with no perfume
To keep a memory of its bloom!

Look upon that hour-mark'd round,
Listen to that fateful sound;
There my silent hand is stealing,
My more silent course revealing;
Wild, devoted PLEASURE, hear-
Stay thee on thy mad career!

THE WRONGS OF LOVE.

Alas! how bitter are the wrongs of love! Life has no other sorrow so acute:

For love is made of every fine emotion,

Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;

It looketh to the stars, and dreams of heaven;

It nestles mid the flowers, and sweetens earth.
Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too:

It doth exalt another o'er itself,

With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise

That which it worships; yet is fain to win
The idol to its lone and lowly home

Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck

When such hopes perish. From that moment, life
Has in its depths a well of bitterness,

For which there is no healing.

LOVE'S LAST WORDS.

Light be around thee, hope be thy guide;
Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide;
Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,
Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.

Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best
Greet the long-absent again to his rest;
Be thy life like glad music, which floateth away
As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May.

But yet while thy moments in melody roll,
Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,

Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear-
Then think how your twilights were past away here.

And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be

Light as the dream of the morning to thee!

One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine
May be granted to love so devoted as mine;

THE POET.

Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,
That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt;

Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire,

Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.

It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray

Of sunset can image the soul of the bard;

The light of the evening around them may play,

But the frost-work beneath is, though bright, cold and hard.

'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows,

Where the minstrel may find his own semblance portray'd; The red fires that gleam on the summits are those That first on his own inmost spirit have prey'd.

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings,

Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;
No note of wild music is swept from the strings,
But first his own feelings have echo'd the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,

That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;
Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;
For the pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.

HER LAST LETTER.

CAPE COAST CASTLE, October 15, 1838. MY DEAREST MARIE: I cannot but write to you a brief account how I enact the part of a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I must say, in itself, the place is infinitely superior to all I ever dreamed of. The castle is a fine building the rooms excellent. I do not suffer from heat; insects there are few or none, and I am in excellent health. The solitude, except an occasional dinner, is absolute; from seven in the morning till seven, when we dine, I never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any one else. We were welcomed by a series of dinners, which I am glad are over, for it is very awkward to be the only lady. Still, the great kindness with which I have been treated, and the very pleasant manners of many of the gentlemen, make me feel it as little as possible. I have not yet felt the want of society the least: I do not wish to form new friends, and never does a day pass without thinking most affectionately of my old ones. On three sides we are surrounded by the sea. I like the perpetual dash on the rocks; one wave comes up after another, and is for ever dashed in pieces, like human hopes, that can only swell to be disappointed; as we advance, up springs the shining froth of love or hope, "a moment white and gone for ever." The land-view, with its cocoa and palm-trees, is very striking; it is like a scene in the Arabian Nights. Of a night, the beauty is very remarkable the sea is of a silvery purple, and the moon deserves all that has been said in her favor. I have only once been out of the fort by daylight, and then was delighted. The salt-lakes were first dyed a deep crimson by the setting sun, and as we returned they seemed a faint violet in the twilight, just broken by a thousand stars, while before us was the red beacon-light. The chance of sending this letter is a very sudden one. Dearest, do not forget me. Pray write to me: write about yourself; nothing else half so much interests L. E. MACLEAN.

Your affectionate

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, 1797-1839.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born in the city of Bath, in the year 1797. On the completion of his education, he began the world under the most favorable auspices, and mingled with the best society of the day. At the age of twentyeight, having married an excellent and accomplished woman, who brought him a considerable fortune, he retired to a country-seat in Sussex, where he continued

in the enjoyment of literary leisure and domestic happiness till 1831, when he experienced a change in his pecuniary affairs. The fortune of his wife had been mostly expended, and his father suddenly became a bankrupt and left the country. Under this pressure of misfortunes, he addressed the following beautiful

VERSES TO HIS WIFE.

Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove;
My heart were truly desolate

Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound.

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met!

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek

Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labor'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;

Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some who have profess'd
So much in friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But, ah! from them to thee I turn,-
They'd make me loathe mankind;
Far better lessons I may learn
From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home,

I feel they cannot take:

We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one another's sake.

He had hitherto written for his amusement, but he now had to write for his bread; and soon he became one of the most industrious as well as the most successful of English authors. But though he received large sums for his most popular songs and ballads, he was, from his want of habits of economy, always embarrassed and oppressed with debt. The excitement occasioned by his situation at length induced disease, and he died at Cheltenham, after a severe and protracted illness, on the 22d of April, 1839, in his forty-second year, leaving a