Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

I drink to love and thee: Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou 'It still be young for me.

And, as thy lips the tear-drop chase Which on my check they find, So hope shall steal away the trace Which sorrow leaves behind!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom! Our joys shall always last;

For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears-
They mingle with my bowl!

How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
The draught will still be sweet!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom! Our joys shall always last;

For hope will brighten days to come, And memory gild the past!

THE SHRINE.

TO

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this devotion,
young
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;

And, every humbler altar past,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

THE darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls Has long been remember'd with awe and dismay! For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,

And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,
Yet none could the woods of the castle illume;
And the lightning which flash'd on the neighbouring

stream

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse?»
Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the cave;-
It can never dispel, said the wizard of verse,

Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the wave!»

And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age? For Reuben was first in the combat of men,

Though Youth had scarce written his name on her

page.

For Willumberg's daughter his bosom had beat,
For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,
When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,
It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn!

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?
Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave,
That darkness should cover the castle for ever,
Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

She flew to the wizard-And tell me, oh tell!
Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes? —
Yes, yes--when a spirit shall toll the great bell

Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!»

Twice, thrice he repeated, Your Reuben shall rise!, And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; She wiped, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes, And she hoped she might yet see her hero again!

Her hero could smile at the terrors of death,

When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose! To the Oder he flew, and there plunging beneath,

In the lapse of the billows soon found his repose.

How strangely the order of destiny falls!

Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,

There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank : Two days did she wander, and all the long night, In quest of her love on the wide river's bank.

| Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, And she heard but the breathings of night in the

air;

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,

And she saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw,

As she look'd at the light of the moon in the stream, She thought 't was his helmet of silver she saw,

As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam.

And now the third night was begemming the sky,

Poor Rose on the cold dewy margent reclined, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When, hark!-'t was the bell that came deep in the wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;
She knew 't was her love, though his cheek was decay'd,
And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide.

Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold?-
Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;
"T was Reuben, but ah! he was deathly and cold,
And flitted away like the spell of a dream!

1 I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story: I rather hopethough the mauner of it leads me to doubt-that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the speciosa miracula of true poetic imagination.

I find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this story in a German author, FROMANN upon Fascination, book iii, part. vi, ch. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive that Fromann quotes it from Beluacensis, among many o her stories equally diabolical and interesting.-E.

He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring;

And much he wonder'd what could mean

So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court
He went without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand,
And force the ring away!

But mark a stranger wonder still-
The ring was there no more;
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd,
And open as before!

He search'd the base, and all the court,
And nothing could he find,
But to the castle did return

With sore bewilder'd mind.

Within he found them all in mirth, The night in dancing flew;

The youth another ring procured, And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has join'd their hands, The hours of love advance!

Rupert almost forgets to think

Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel

In blushing sweetness lay,

Like flowers half-open'd by the dawn,

And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,

In youthful beauty glows,

Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast
His beams upon a rose!

And here my song should leave them both,
Nor let the rest be told,

But for the horrid, horrid tale
It yet has to unfold!

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him,

A death-cold carcase found;

He saw it not, but thought he felt
Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then return'd,

But found the phantom still;

In vain he shrunk, it clipp'd him round, With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips

A kiss of horror gave;

"T was like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert, wild and loud

Thou criedst to thy wife,

Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,
My Isabel! my life!

But Isabel had nothing seen,

She look'd around in vain;

And much she mourn'd the mad conceit

That rack'd her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible

These words to Rupert came:

(Oh God! while he did hear the words, What terrors shook his frame!)

Husband! husband! I've the ring Thou gavest to-day to me; And thou 'rt to me for ever wed, As I am wed to thee!»

And all the night the demon lay

Cold-chilling by his side,

And strain'd him with such deadly grasp,
He thought he should have died!

But when the dawn of day was near,
The horrid phantom fled,

And left the affrighted youth to weep
By Isabel in bed.

All, all that day a gloomy cloud

Was seen on Rupert's brows;

Fair Isabel was likewise sad,

But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought
Of coming night with fear:
Ah! that he must with terror view
The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,
Again their couch they press'd;
Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,
And look'd for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again
The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strain'd him in its grasp,
With howl exulting cried,—
Husband! husband! I've the ring,
The ring thou gavest to me;
And thou 'rt to me for ever wed,
As I am wed to thee!

TO A BOY WITH A WATCH.
WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather fancy's brilliant flowers?
And is it not more sweet than this

To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth:
With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flowers of fancy brighter!

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew? The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze? Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind? Where are the links that twined with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart? Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire? The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre? Do these descend with all that tide of fame Which vainly waters an unfruitful name?

SONG.

WHY does azure deck the sky! 'T is to be like thy looks of blue; Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why are Nature's beauties felt?

Oh! 't is thine in her we see! Why has music power to melt?

Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A.' THOUGH long at school and college, dozing On books of rhyme and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for forming sages; Though long with those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake, What steps we are through life to take: Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd, And so much midnight oil destroy'd,

I must confess, my searches past,

I only learn'd to doubt at last.

I find the doctors and the sages

Have differ'd in all climes and ages,

The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed is the author of some esteemed works, and was Mr Little's most particular friend. I have heard Mr Little very frequently speak of him as one in whom

had nature left any deficiency.-E.