Ay, I must linger here,
A lonely branch upon a withered tree,
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee.

Oft from life's withered bower
In still communion with the past I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In Memory's urn.

And when the evening pale

Bows like a mourner on the dim blue wave, I stray to hear the night-winds wail Around thy grave.

Where is thy spirit flown?

I gaze above thy look is imaged there;
I listen, and thy gentle tone

HA

THE SEA-CAVE.

ARDLY we breathe, although the air be free:

How massively doth awful Nature pile The living rock, like some cathedral aisle Sacred to silence and the solemn sea! How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly! And under its glassed surface seems to smile,

With many hues, a mimic grove the while, Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower and tree. Beautiful scene, and fitted to allure The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid,

Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed, 'Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure, May sport at noontide in the caverned shade, Cold as the shadow, as the waters pure.

THOMAS DOUBLEDAY.

foul !

An act abhorred in nature, cold in soul!

Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows and cold disdain.

THOMAS MIDDLETON.

MATTHEW PRIOR.