A CHEVALIER'S SONG.

BY PATRICK FRASER TYTLER, ESQ.

If burnished helm, and spear in rest,
And knightly deeds of high renown,
Had any power to move thy breast,
I'd throw my ready gauntlet down;
And challenge all, both prince and peer,
For thy dear sake to break a spear.

Or if thou dost these triumphs scorn,
And penance drear and deep enjoin,
A shirt of hair, a scourge of thorn,
I'd gladly bear to make thee mine;
And in the lonely desert lie,
My bed the rock, my roof the sky.

But nought will do! thy cruelty
Is proof 'gainst penance, glory, grief;
Th' unfeeling glance of that cold eye
Too plainly tells there's no relief;
And all my love for many a year
Will ne'er wring out one little tear.

EPISTLE

TO THE EDITOR OF FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

HONOURED and gifted Friend, Why ask of me, a votary of the Nine, My bootless aid to lend

E'en to one page of such a tome as thine?

Hast thou not heard the news,

That BARDS and POESY are "out of date?"
And that the only MEWS,

Now cared for, is of quadrupedal state?

"Cui bono?" is the cry:

Mechanics' Institutes, Steam-engines, Shares

In some New Company,

Omnium, and Scrip, the talk of Bulls and Bears.

Some new and vulgar wonder

Far more than Poetry may hope to please;
Thames and its Tunnel under,

Or else Don Miguel and the Portuguese!

Or Wright, and his Champagne,

So much per dozen, counting in the packing;
The price of hides and grain,

Or peerless qualities of Warren's Blacking!

Such are the themes and things

Which now are popular: but who for such
Could tune the lyre's sweet strings,
Nor feel that he profaned them by his touch?

Then be the harp unstrung

"Till simple Nature re-assert her reign;

And hearts, once more grown young, Respond with feeling to its gentlest strain.

"Till then, alas! I fear

Whoe'er may sing the world will heed them not; But just as soon would hear

Sir William Curtis as Sir Walter Scott!

THERE'S JOY WHEN THE ROSY MORNING.

BY MISS SUSANNA STRICKLAND.

THERE'S joy when the rosy morning floods

The purple East with light;

When the zephyr sweeps from a thousand buds

The pearly tears of night:

There's joy when the lark exulting springs

To pour his matin lay;

From the blossomed thorn when the blackbird sings,

And the merry month is May.

There's joy abroad when the wintry snow

Melts as it ne'er had been ;

When cowslips bud, and violets blow,
And leaves are fresh and green :
There's joy in the swallow's airy flight;
In the cuckoo's blithesome cry;
When the floating clouds reflect the light
Of evening's glowing sky.

There's joy in April's balmy showers,
'Mid gleams of sunshine shed;

When May brings forth a thousand flowers
To deck the earth's green bed:

There's joy when the pale pale moon comes out,

With all her starry train;

When the woods return the reaper's shout,

And echo shouts again.

There's joy in childhood's silvery voice,
When the laugh rings blithe and clear,
And the sounds that bid young hearts rejoice
Are music to the ear:

There's joy in the sweet romance of youth,

Ere care a shadow throws Across the radiant brow of truth,

To mar the soul's repose.

There's joy in the youthful lover's breast,
When his bride by the altar stands,
When his trembling lips to hers are pressed,
And the priest has joined their hands.
There's joy-deep joy-in the mother's heart,

When she clasps her first-born son,

And the tears of holy rapture start

To bless the lovely one.

There's joy! above — around — beneath —

But 'tis a fleeting ray;

The world's stern strife, the hand of death,
Bid mortal hopes decay :

But there's a deeper joy than earth
With all her charms can give,

Which marks the spirit's second birth,
When man but dies to live!