IMPROMPTU,

ON BEING UNABLE TO FIND THE GRAVE OF MARGARET

M. DAVIDSON, IN THE BURYING-GROUND AT SARATOGA

SPRINGS.

July 2, 1841.

SHADE of Poesy, arise!

Tell me tell me where she lies!
Tell me if that fragile flower,
Blasted in its early hour;

If the clay that wrapped the soul,
Whose sweet music o'er us stole
But an hour, then died away

Like a passing angel's lay,

Thus, neglected and alone,

Sleepeth here, without a stone
To tell us where the lovely trust
Mingles with its mother dust.

Yonder is a gorgeous tomb,

Where the white rose is in bloom;

Here a marble column stands,

Reared and decked by kindred hand;

But among them hers is not

Genius!-oh, how sad thy lot!

THE MAIDEN'S REVER Y.

'Tis eve, and by this stream I stand,

And think, departed one, of theeWhen first thou here didst take my hand,

And breathe thy hallowed love to me :"Twas 'neath this willow's pensive browAnd it is here, but where art thou?

Years have rolled by with rapid flight,
And grief has been upon my way;

The stars and moon look down as bright;
The earth is clad with flowers as gay;
And green and verdant every bough
As on that night-but where art thou?

The hills are here, the mountains blue,
The vales, the bowers of roses fair,
The nightingale, the zephyrs too,

This little streamlet, soft and clear,
And murmuring low and sweetly now
As on that night-but where art thou?

I'll question thus no more my love,

But lift my streaming eyes awhile Up to the starry skies above,

And bask in thy angelic smile; For well I know, beloved one, now In yon bright heaven abidest thou.

THE SPOT I LOVE BEST.

Thither where he lies buried!

That single spot is the whole world to me.

COLERIDGE.

THERE is one only spot on earth,

That holds my heart beyond all otherIt is the place that gave me birth—

Where lonely dwells my aged mother :

And where the pensive willow weeps,
The streamlet calmly ever flows
Beside the sod where sweetly sleeps

My father in his last repose.

ELLA,

OR

LOVE'S SPELL.

"Weep for the love that cannot change;

Like some unholy spell,

It hangs upon the life that loved,
So vainly, and so well."

STRANGE I should have loved thee ever,

Faithless, fickle as thou art;

Stranger still, false one, that never

Can I wrench thee from

my

heart.

Scorn, like shaft shot from its quiver

Which is dipped in fatal bane, And doth send death's icy shiver

Through the heart and every vein;

Lone neglect, the stern decision

That thy presence bids me flee; Wrong, and hate, and cold derisionThese I all have borne from thee, Till my brow in youth's fresh hour

Is by clouds of grief o'ercast,