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Oh, fly with me, love!-from those desolate shores,
Where the eye may not look on the heart it adores ;
Where love is but shrined in the breasts of a few,
And its worth only felt by such spirits as you!

To some distant land, far away from the eye
Of the cold and the heartless, together we'll fly;
Where with nature around us-the blue sky above,
We may taste all the sweets of peace, freedom, and love!

There with heart never changing-nor brow overcast
By one hateful remembrance of days that are past;
We'll forget all the dreams of our earlier years,
Our madness and sorrow-our darkness and tears:

Oh, we'll love with that exquisite tone of delight
That the blest ever feel in the mansions of light;
And our lives, like the close of a long summer's day,
Shall pass amid glory and calmness away!


From growing indolence I start, and wake,

Roused by thy once well-known-now stranger pen,
And from a cloud of mental stupor break

To tempt life's whirlwind, trying if again
Its varying gales of happiness and woe

Can bring forth former feelings to my soul

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Lindor's answer to Alcestus.

In full remembrance of the past-as though
Time's self had stood, and bowed to the control
Of all the incidents o'er which it rules,

Fooling mankind, who never deem the end
Will shew that nothing but misfortune schools
The ignorant in craft, or proves the friend.

The world goes round us, and our fleeting years

Roll onward to the goal of time, whose stream Ruffled by sighs of woe, and swelled with tears

Runs chill and gloomy still;-joy's waning beam, Nor warms, nor lights the impenetrable flood.

Pleasures may seem to cheer us, and we smile; But, like the workings of the fevered blood,

They end. We dreamt-it may be, raved the while.

For this life happiness was never made

We must look further-else we look in vain. While hopes unrealized in visions fade,

Sorrows their dread disastrous summit gain.

By passions oft our tortured souls are riven;
Love rules a tyrant of despotic sway;
A seeming excellence is sent from Heaven

To prove its power by leading men astray.

We'd fly ourselves-the self-tormentor shun

We sigh for peace; yet wearied, seeking rest, We headlong to the giddy vortex run,

Where froth, and nothingness, and nonsense, drest In all the pomp of jewels, lace, and pride,

Reign self-important, and with vacant gaze Betraying ignorance they fain would hide

In fashion's trammels stalk through folly's maze.

Say then shall this our firmer souls dismay?
No-hearts, that friendship hath so closely bound,
Despise the light, unsentimental play

Of feeling's levity, or the empty sound
Of promise that may ne'er performance meet;
We hate the absence of Promethean fire,
Nor brook the word, when action 's incomplete.

Too loathsome this.-We'll to ourselves retire.
Some other thoughts shall fill our blanks of time,
Whether the sun-light or the taper's rays
Shall guide us in a loftier range to climb,

And from life's death redeem our future days.

Elegiac Lines to the Irish Harp-The Dramatic Observer.

Peerless thy strains, sweet Harp of Erin, flow

To wipe the bursting tear from sorrow's eye,
To smooth the furrowed brow of drooping woe,

Or wrap the soul in extacies on high!

Thou sweetest nymph in sphere-born music's train,
Round thee each gentler passion hovers nigh;
How pleasure sparkles at thy sportive strain!
How pity hails thy heart-entrancing sigh!

When Heaven's dread wrath shot direful from above,
And sorrow pour'd her viol thro' the air,
The power that crush'd us felt its former love

And left thee, charmer! to beguile our care!
What tho' thy strain can boast no pompous sound
That strikes the ear nor more essays to do,
Be thine the lay, tho lively, yet profound,

That charms the ear and melts the bosom too!
What tho' each loftier tone be vanished long

To bless the lyre of some more happy shore,
Mild sympathy still breathes thy plaintive song
And pensive melancholy as before!

And if remembrance darken at thy lay,
As oft it wails poor Erin's glories gone,
The shade's dark contrast gilds with brighter ray
The morn that dawns when hope inspires thy song.
Oh! yes-thou still possessest many a charm-

Full many a link still binds thee to each heart—
Of half its power thou robb'st fell fortune's arm,

Thou stripp'st of half its keenness misery's smart.
Yes! soon the dire offence shall be forgiven

That left thee victim to misfortune's train,
Erin shall smile again the loved of Heaven,

And fame and wisdom's song be thine again!

be Dramstis Observer.

"Praise where you can-be candid where you must."

THE production of "Mirandola," a tragedy, by Barry Cornwall, is the earliest novelty that comes under our observation this month. Our opinion of the merits of this play will be found in another part of this number-we have only to speak of the performance here. In commenting on Mr. Young on a former occasion, we remarked the cold precision and chaste excellence of his acting, but we had not at that time witnessed his exertions in Mirandola; he has since convinced us

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