FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING.
BY THOMAS HAYNES DAYLY.
To whom shall Friexpsmir’s Orrerixne
Be sent, if not to Thee?
Whose smiles of friendship have so tong
Been treasured. yp for Me?
For thou has: shared my joy and grief.
The one thou mad’st more gay;
And from the other thou didat steal
All bitterness away.
Love's tribute long ago I gave,
And thine it still shall be;
And Friendship’s offering I'll end
To none, if not to
And what is Fri 's Offering?
What tribute will she send?
Are costly gems, and gold, the gifts
That friend bestows on friend? nail
The ruby ring? the sparkling chain?
If such alone can please, ee ’
Oh they must come from other friends, ~~
For I have none’of these!
But no, it is a simpler gift
That Friendship will prefer,
A gift whose greatest worth consists
In being sent by Her:
It is a volume in whose leaves
No sentiment is traced
That Virtue, in her gravest mood,
Would wish to see effaced:
The muses fill all leaves but one,
And ere the book send,
On that leaf I will trace the name
Of my own dearest Friend.
Love's tribute long ago I gave,
And thine it still shall be,
And Paienpsate’s Orrerine I'll send
To none—if not to Thee.
THE GLADIATOR!S DREAM.
He slept, as sleep the wronged and proud—
Pale, cold, and firm, and sighing low,
That even in slumber, scorn the loud
And vulgar plaint of common wo :—
Bat o’er that brow, so calm, so fair,
Had passed the finger of despair.
He dreamed—not of his conquered sol!,
Nor pure chill breeze of northern clime;
Nor forest hut, nor hunter’s wil,
Nor aught he loved in happier time;
With him, such vision would not dwell
In bondage, in a marble cell.
He dreamed—and years had rolled away—
The victor, and the vanquished came,
In shadowy battle’s dim array,
With fainting nfoan, and stern acclaim,
Banner, and corse, steed, helm, and shield,
In dark heaps strewn on War's broad field.
He saw, wild myriads sweeping by,
The dread avenger’s lightning path—
And stained and trampled Eagles lie
Beneath the fair-haired stranger's wrath—
Then leaped his heart—the work was done—
Brave justice, by the Goth, and Hun.
He waked—his hour of bitter pain,
Still to be borne—but free, and bold,
His step, as if a servile chain,
Ne’er touched those limbs of graceful mould,
Then smiled, as rose the sullen hum
Of crowds—and said, “a time will come."
One glance, one cold, keen glance, around,
His high prophetic spirit cast,
One sigh, that yast arena’s bound
Re-echoed—*twas the first, and last—
He knew that fate had sealed each dome,
With “vengeance on Imperial Rome.”
THE MERCHANT’S DAUGHTER.
BY W. H. HARRISON, ESQ.
Altvarrez de Rameiro was the son of a Portuguese Marquis by an English lady of great
beauty and considerable fortune. The match
was particularly obnoxious to the family of the
nobleman; and Alvarez, at the death of his
mother, found himself heir to her English estates
and to the cordial dislike of his Portuguese relations: but he was of a light heart and free spirit,
and found an antidote to their coldness and neglect in his contempt for their opinion. It naturally followed, however, that he was often, as
much “upon compulsion” as from choice, left to
the society of his own reflections, which, as he
possessed a tolerably well-stored mind and a
clear conscience, were very endurable company.
In one of the solitary rambles, in which it was his wont to indulge, he found himself in the vicinity of the pleasure-grounds attached toa villa within a league of Lisbon the country residence of a British merchant. he approached the garden, was separated from the road by a deep moat, he perceived walking on a slight elevation or terrace a young lady, whose form and countenance were so entirely to his taste, that his eyes followed her with an earnestness, which, had she observed it, might not have impressed her with a very favourable notion of his good manners. Whether he was desirous of quenching the incipient flame in his bosom, by rushing into the opposite element, cr of arriving at his object by the shortest possible cut (overlooking in his haste the parenthesis of the ditch) it is neither possible nor essential for me to-state; but-certain it is, that the lady was roused from her meditations by the noise of a sudden plunge in the water, and, on turning round, she saw a portion of a mantle floating on the moat, and immediately afterwards the hapless owner floundering about, either ignorant of the art of swimming, or incapacitated for efficient exertion by his cloak and appended finery.
The lady did not shriek out, for she knew that the gardener was deaf, and that her cries would not reach the mansion: she did not tear her hair —for, unless she could have made a rope of it,
there had been little wisdom in that—but she did