Then let my soul aspire to scale There, one eternal cloudless sun And wide around his central throne Unborrow'd glory streams. Lloyd's Evening Post. THE MADAGASCAR MOTHER. The following is not an European fiction, it is a real Madagascar Song, brought from that island by the Chevalier de Porni. "WHY shriek'st thou, weak girl? why this coward despair? Thy tears and thy struggles are vain; Oppose me no more, of my curses beware! Thy terrors and grief I disdain." The mother was dragging her daughter away "Oh spare me !" she cry'd, "sure thou would'st not betray The child of thy bosom for gold? "The pledge of thy love; I first taught thee to know A mother's affection and fears, What crime has deserv'd thou should'st only bestow "I tenderly sooth ev'ry sorrow and care; The fish of the stream by my wiles I ensnare; "From the bleak wint'ry blast I have shelter'd thy head; Oft borne thee with zeal to the shade; Thy slumbers have watch'd on the soft leafy bed; "Who'll cherish thy age when from thee I am torn? Gold ne'er buys affection like mine! Thou'lt bow to the earth, while despairing I mourn "Then sell me not; save me from anguish and shame! No child thou hast, mother, but me! Oh! do not too rashly abjure the dear claim; In vain she implor'd—wretched maid! she was sold, THE ROSE-BUD. MARK the sweet rose-bud ere it blows, At noon, more bold, in fullest bloom, So beauty's bashful bud appears, And wither'd-so in age decays. Time is the canker-worm of youth, See, beauty, see! how love and joy, Now, beauty! crop the rose-bud now ! Westminster Magazine. CONTENT. I Do not know a cheerless hour, My mind a kingdom is to me;" Sovereign of that, I rule alone; Though arbitrary, yet I'm free, Nor seek nor wish another throne. Let statesmen, with ambitious schemes, Search for that bliss which none can find; I envy not their idle dreams, Blest with serenity of mind; For ne'er had yet ambition's son, His fluttering course when he has run, While the sweet maid that I address, To her my life I will devote, With her shall ev'ry hour be spent ; Credit, ye swains, what I have wrote, For know, the virgin's nam'd coNTENT. TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF A BULLFINCH. SINCE fate has stopp'd the warbler's song, Nor blush to shed a tear. 'Tis man alone, with impious pride, Not his the care at early morn |