Through the rich tumult of the wires,
Till rushed the sounds, like living fires,
Among the warrior band.

"Woe to the lands!" the minstrel sang,
"That hear the Norman rider's clang,
Their bloody doom is sealed;
With eye of flame, and voice of fear,
He comes, the breaker of the spear,
The scorner of the shield!

"Where lies, proud Greek! thy crescent vane?
Its silver light is on the wane-

Where, Venice, is thy barge?

Illustrious harlot of the deep!
No longer shall thy banner sweep
The Adria's purple marge.

"Thou mother, queen of nations, Rome,
What arrow tore thy eagle's plume,
Now proudest, last of all?

Health to the king!—his wreath is won,
The Norman sits on England's throne,
The sovereign of the ball."

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

OH when the lips we loved are cold, and fixed in silent death, The tender tale that once they told parts not with parting breath; A word—a tone survives its hour-an angel's passing strain, Once heard when dreams from heaven had power, and never heard again!

From eyes that death hath closed, a gleam thrills softly o'er the heart!

That joins with life its blessed beam, till life itself depart!
Then from its last exhaling fires it purely parts above,
And with the mounting soul aspires to light it up to love!

A FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.

Nor in envy, ire, or grief,
Bid I now the Muse farewell;
"Tis no childish fancy brief,
Lured away by newer spell;
As of earthly good the chief,

I have sought her long and well.

Not in anger;-inward joys

Have been mine, and meed of praise,—
Payment vast for idle toys,

Fleeting, unsubstantial lays ;
Sandy columns wind destroys,
And that wind again can raise.

No, nor yet in grief we part,—
Never unto bard like me,
Gave the Muse a broken heart;
'Tis to nobler votaries, she
Doth that awful gift impart,—
Pledge of immortality!

Not in envy;-though around,
Like the stars, a radiant throng,
In their several orbits found,
I behold the sons of song,—
Every brow with laurel bound,
And a few as giants strong.

Not in envy ;-though I know

Neither wreath nor radiance mine;

I will yet pay homage low,

Pilgrim-like, at every shrine;

Seek where buds and blossoms grow,

And for others garlands twine.

Never hath my Muse bereaved me,
Song hath lightened hours of pain;
Never Poet yet deceived me,

Truer friend I scarce could gain;

Ne'er among the things that grieved me,
Ranked the minstrel lute and strain.

Yet I bid the art adieu,

It may be, adieu for ever;

I abjure the Syren too,

Vain, I own, my best endeavour;
Weak to grasp, though keen to view,
Climbing alway―rising never.

Though I smite the rock of song,
At my stroke no stream will flow,-
At my spell no spirits strong

Bidden come, or mastered go;
Nor the world of passion throng
With its wild waves to and fro.

Farewell Muse!-vouchsafing never
But dim glance and veiled brow;
Farewell Lute!-a rude toy ever,

Broken, stringless, soon art thou;
Farewell Song!-thy last notes quiver,—
Muse,-Lute,Music,-farewell now!

Literary Souvenir.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 't is true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm ;

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell:

I thought it delightful your beauties to find

When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore.

What landscape I read in the primrose's looks;
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangle the shore.

Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,

With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

New Monthly Magazine.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

WHY do I weep?-to leave the vine,
Whose clusters o'er me bend?
The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mine!
The flowers I loved to tend?
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep,
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh! therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister—we have played
Through many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower!
Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more—
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father!—Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,

With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward steps to greet!

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled,—
I leave thee!-let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee !—on thy breast,

Pouring out joy and woe,

I have found that holy place of rest

Still changeless-yet I go!

Lips that have lulled me with your strain,

Eyes that have watched my sleep;

Will earth give love like yours again?—

Sweet mother, let me weep!

Morning Chronicle.