XIV.

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose

Within some breast of less obdurate frame, Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows Full in his view, and CUCKOLD is its name. Him Scorn attended with a glance askew,

And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,

And vex'd the region round the Cupid's throne: "Far be from us, they cry'd, the treach'rous bane, "Far be the dimply guile, and far the flow'ry chain !"

SONG.

Say, fond lover, is thy mind
By the gentle Muse refin'd?
Hast thou skill to strike the lyre
With thine own Apollo's fire?
Think not so the maid to move;
Hopeless is a Poet's love:

Rich and high-born dotards tear
From thine arms the venal fair..

Haply health's unborrow'd hues
Oer thy cheek their bloom diffuse,
And thy graceful limbs outvie
Phidian forms in symmetry :
Ah! to Albion's sordid train
Youth and beauty sue in vain!
Rich and high-born dotards tear
From thine arms the venal fair.

Though the Muse inspire thy breast;
On thy face though wonder rest,
Wildly gazing; and thy frame
Rival Græcia's proudést fame ;-
Sigh unheard, unpitied pine,

If nor rank nor wealth be thine:
Rich and high-born dotards tear,
From thine arms the venal fair.

F. R. S.

OWEN'S GRAVE.

Margaret lamenting over her Father's Grave.

By WILLIAM CASE, Junr.

Ah low beneath this flowery coverture

Thy relics, Owen! lie. Thrice hath the Moon

Her crescent fill'd, since first

poor Margaret, Thy soul's belov'd, to this thy mortal shrine

Spring's balmy incense brought, thy honor'd name
So to recall to mind, so pay the debt
Of filial gratitude. Lo! now I plant
Shrubs ever verdant, pansies, creeping thyme,
And rosemary, that in our garden once
So sweetly flourish'd. 'Twas a pleasant spot,
A little Eden, yet I loved it more

For Owen's sake. O how the Violet

The tepid morn of Spring would hail, its breath All fragrance, and its purple buds unclose Beside our casement; but, my Father! soon,

Thy loss methought lamenting, soon it cast

Its withering leaves, and died. This vermil Rose, Pluck'd from the favorite tree thine own hands rear'd, Shall o'er its planter's humble sepulchre

Its short-lived sweets exhale. Ah me! the time

I well remember, 'twas one summer eve,
Grateful the sportive breeze, as with my Sire
I strayed; the half-blown petals of a rose
Sudden he spied, "See'st thou, my Margaret!
"That moss-clad Rosebush? how its infant germ
"Is bursting into bloom!" Ah me, my Girl!
"Ere those fair flowerets fade, thy hand perchance
"May strew them on my grave; but, by the love
"Thou bearest thy parent, I conjure thee heed
"This my request; when I am dead, this tree
"Be thine to tend, to prune, and kindly shield
"From winter's chilly blights." I little thought,
Thy bodings, OWEN! were alas too just!
How lately did'st thou to our social hut

The wayworn traveller hail, before him spread
A homely fare, and whilst our crackling fire
Blazed cheerily, and frequent on the roof
Fell the loud raindrops, bless thy happy stars,