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Oh, fly with me, love!-from those desolate shores,
To some distant land, far away from the eye
There with heart never changing-nor brow overcast
Oh, we'll love with that exquisite tone of delight
LINDOR'S ANSWER TO ALCESTUS.
From growing indolence I start, and wake,
Roused by thy once well-known-now stranger pen,
To tempt life's whirlwind, trying if again
Can bring forth former feelings to my soul
Lindor's answer to Alcestus.
In full remembrance of the past-as though
Fooling mankind, who never deem the end
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;
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?
Of feeling's levity, or the empty sound
Too loathsome this.-We'll to ourselves retire.
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,
Or wrap the soul in extacies on high!
Thou sweetest nymph in sphere-born music's train,
When Heaven's dread wrath shot direful from above,
And left thee, charmer! to beguile our care!
That charms the ear and melts the bosom too!
To bless the lyre of some more happy shore,
And if remembrance darken at thy lay,
Full many a link still binds thee to each heart—
Thou stripp'st of half its keenness misery's smart.
That left thee victim to misfortune's train,
And fame and wisdom's song be thine again!
"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