Well, let it be! Through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show ;—
And thou a thing of hope and change.
New Monthly Magazine.

VIOLA.

A FRAGMENT.

SHE had a form; but I might talk till night,
Young as the sun is now upon our watch,
Ere I had told its beauties!-It was slight,
Even as yon willow, and like its soft stem,
Fell into thousand motions, and all lovely!
But for her cheek,-look on those streaks of rose
Tinting the white clouds o'er us! Now and then
A flush of deeper crimson lighting up

Their wreaths, like wind kissed lilies of the vale ;—
And now and then, a long, rich, ebon tinge,
Floating between them!-There I think I see
Still, though she's in her grave-the cheek I loved,
With the dark tress that veiled it. When I sat
Beneath her eye, I felt its splendour on me
Like a bright spell.-'Tis not the diamond's ray,
Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful
In that ascending sun, or in this world,
Can bring me back its image ;-'twas a soul
That has no portraiture on earth; a beam
As we have heard of Angels, where no lips
Are wanted to give utterance to the thought;
Her eye was radiant thought. Yet when her voice
Spoke to me, or, at evening o'er her lute,
Breathed some old melody, or closed the day
With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have turned,
Even from the glory of her eye, to weep,

With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears,
On earth, I weep no more.-She's in the grave!
New Times.

TO THE IVY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! how could fancy crown with thee
In ancient days, the God of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er ;

Where song's full notes once pealed around, But now are heard no more!

The Roman, on his battle-plains,

Where Kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains,
Around the Victor's tent;

Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the Victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past ;--
Where through the halls of glory gone
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair ;—

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,
On classic plains dost mantling spread,
And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead;

Deserted palaces of Kings,

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,

And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!

And reared 'midst crags and clouds 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine-
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down,
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed, and left no trace;
But thou art there!-Thy foliage bright,
Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,-
Thou that will climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round grandeur's marble halls,—
The vivid hues by painting thrown,
Rich o'er the glowing walls,—
The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fair ;-
These, perish all-and what remains?
Thou thou alone art there!

'Tis still the same-where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see ;
The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,—

August in beauty, grace and strength,—

Days pass, thou Ivy never sere,

And all is thine at length.

Literary Gazette,

THE RETURN FROM INDIA,

WRITTEN BY AN OFFICER, LONG RESIDENT IN INDIA, ON HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND.

I CAME, but they had passed away-
The fair in form, the pure in mind,--
And like a stricken deer I stray,

Where all are strange, and none are kind,-
Kind to the worn, the wearied soul,

That pants, that struggles for repose:
O! that my steps had reached the goal
Where earthly sighs and sorrows close!

Years have passed o'er me like a dream,
That leaves no trace on memory's page!
I look around me, and I seem

Some relict of a former age.
Alone, as in a stranger clime,

Where stranger voices mock my ear,-
I mark the lagging course of time,
Without a wish-a hope--a fear!

Oh I had hopes-but they are fled!

And I had fears, which proved too true! .
My wishes too!—but they are dead,—
And what have I with life to do!
"Tis but to bear a weary load,

I may not, dare not, cast away!
To sigh for one small, still abode,
Where I may sleep as sweet as they !—

As they, the loveliest of their race!—
Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep;
Whose worth my soul delights to trace,--
Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep;
To weep beneath the silent moon,

With none to chide, to hear, to see!—
Life can bestow no dearer boon,

On one whom death disdains to free.

I leave a world that knows me not,
To hold communion with the dead;
And fancy consecrates the spot,

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.
I see each shade, all silvery white--
I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
I turn to clasp those forms of light,
And the pale morning chills my eye.

But soon the last dim morn shall rise,—
The lamp of life burns feebly now,—
When stranger hands shall close my eyes,
And smooth my cold and dewy brow.
Unknown I live ;--so let me die ;—

Nor stone, nor monumental cross,
Tell where his nameless ashes lie,

Who sighed for GOLD, and found it DROSS.
London Magazine.

SONG.

THE ring you gave, the kiss you gave,
The curl of raven hair,-

Pledges of truth and gifts of love,-
Where are they now?-Oh where!

The ring is broken,-and by whom?
The kiss has been profaned;
And many, many bitter tears

That shining curl have stained!

Yes, each and all are wholly changed!-
More changed they could not be;
But the worst change is that, which time,
False one! has wrought in thee.
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.