ROSLINE CASTLE. Ar dead of night, the hour, when courts A solitary wretch forlorn ; My hapless love, her hapless scorn. No sound of joy disturbs my strain, And fancy chills, where'er it shines, To see pale ghosts obscurely gleam. Not so the night, that in thy halls Once, Rosline, danc'd in joy along; What now avails, how great, how gay, And e'en the stones have lost their names. And yon gay crowds must soon expire! Unknown, unprais'd, their fair-one's name: Not so the charms that verse inspire, Encreasing years encrease her fame. Oh Mira! what is state or wealth? London Review. VERSES SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THOMSON. THOU, whose tender, serious eyes The pensive shadows of the grove. O mix their beauteous beams with mine, Let all their sweetness on me shine, Pour'd through my soul be all their darts. Ah! 'tis too much! I cannot bear At once so soft, so keen a ray : In pity, then, my lovely fair, O turn those killing eyes away! But what avails it to conceal One charm, where nought but charms we see? Their lustre then again reveal, And let me, Mira, die of thee. Evening Mail. SONG OF A SPIRIT. IN the sightless air I dwell, On the sloping sun-beams play; Delve the cavern's inmost cell, Where never yet did daylight stray Dive beneath the green sea waves, From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. Oft I mount with rapid force Above the wide earth's shadowy zone; Follow the day-star's flaming course Through realms of space to thought unknown: And listen to celestial sounds That swell the air unheard of men, As I watch my nightly rounds O'er woody steep, and silent glen. Under the shade of waving trees, And oft on point of airy clift, That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift, And twilight veil the liquid plain. Then, when the breeze has sunk away, Their dulcet shells! I hear them now, The ray that silvers o'er the dew, Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, Sad solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move-unknown am fear'd! Mrs. Radcliffe. STANZAS TO LOVE. TELL me, love, when I rove o'er some far distant plain, |