e with its breath;
And in the sun-beam of thine eye
A proud and willing victim die.

But since thou wilt not have it so,
Far from thy presence will I go:
Far from my heart's dear bliss I'll stray,
Since I no longer can obey.
In foreign climes I'll distant roam,
No more to hail my native home:
To foreign swains I'll pour my woe,
In foreign plains my tears shall flow:
By murm'ring stream and shady grove
Shall other echoes tell my love;
And richer flow'rs of vivid hue
Upon my tomb shall other maidens strew.

Adieu, dear Phillis! should'ft thou e'er
Some soft and plaintive story hear,
Of hapless youth who died for love,
Or all forlorn did banish'd rove,
O think of me! nor then deny
The gentle tribute of a sigh.

* * * * *

It may be objected that all these lovers are equally sad, though one is
a cheerful, the other a melancholy lover. It is true they are all equally
sad, for they are all equally in love, and in despair, when it is
impossible for them to be otherwise; but if I have pictured their farewell
complaints in such a way as to give you an idea that one lover is
naturally of a melancholy, one of a cheerful, and one of a proud temper, I
have done all that is intended.

THE STORM-BEAT MAID.

SOMEWHAT AFTER THE STYLE OF OUR OLD ENGLISH BALLADS.

All shrouded in the winter snow,
The maiden held her way;
Nor chilly winds that roughly blow,
Nor dark night could her stay.

O'er hill and dale, through bush and briar,
She on her journey kept;
Save often when she 'gan to tire,
She stop'd awhile and wept.

Wild creatures left their caverns drear,
To raise their nightly yell;
But little doth the bosom fear,
Where inward troubles dwell.

No watch-light from the distant spire,
To cheer the gloom so deep,
Nor twinkling star, nor cottage fire
Did thro' the darkness peep.

Yet heedless still she held her way,
Nor fear'd the crag nor dell;
Like ghost that thro' the gloom to stray,
Wakes with the midnight bell.

Now night thro' her dark watches ran,
Which lock the peaceful mind;
And thro' the neighb'ring hamlets 'gan
To wake the yawning hind.

Yet bark of dog, nor village cock,
That spoke the morning near;
Nor gray-light trembling on the rock,
Her 'nighted mind could cheer.

The whirling flail, and clacking mill
Wake with the early day;
And careless children, loud and shrill,
With new-made snow-balls play.

And as she pas