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ADVERTISEMENTS.

AS BEAUTIFUL POETRY is a good medium for Advertisements, and as only a few can be inserted, the following will be the Scale of Charges:

SOLITUDE.

From COWLEY'S Ode to Solitude.

HERE let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,

With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself, too, mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there,
On whose enamel'd bank I'll walk,

And see how prettily they sinile,
And hear how prettily they talk.

Ah! wretched and too solitary he,
Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of it many a day,
Unless he calls in sin or vanity
To help to bear it away.

VOL. III.

AN ODE TO SPRING.

By GRAY.

Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,

With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy spring;

Till April starts and calls around

The sleeping fragrance from the ground;

And lightly o'er the living scene

Scatters his freshest, tend'rest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet,
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling, thrilling ecstasy;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

I

Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous quire among;
Hark! 'tis nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the general song:
Warm let the lyric transport flow,
Warm as the ray that bids it glow;
And animates the vernal grove
With health, with harmony, and love.

Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by;
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries,
With forward, and reverted eyes.

See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe, and walk again :
The meanest flow'ret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

THE GOLDEN GRAVE.

An old Irish legend has been thus beautifully translated by L. E. L. (Miss LANDON.)

He sleeps within his lonely grave

Upon the lonely hill,

There sweeps the wind-there swells the wave

All other sounds are still.

And strange and mournfully sound they;

Each seems a funeral cry,

O'er life that long has past away,

O'er ages long gone by.

One winged minstrel's left to sing
O'er him who lies beneath-

The humming bee, that seeks in spring
Its honey from the heath,

It is the sole familiar sound

That ever rises there;

For silent is the haunted ground,
And silent is the air.

There never comes the merry bird,
There never bounds the deer;
But during night strange sounds are heard,
The day may never hear:

For there the shrouded Banshee stands,
Scarce seen amid the gloom,

And wrings her dim and shadowy hands,
And chants her song of doom.

Seven pillars, grey with time and moss,
On dark Sleive Monard meet;
They stand to tell a nation's loss-
A king is at their feet.

A lofty moat denotes the place
Where sleeps in slumber cold
The mighty of a mighty race-
The giant kings of old.

There Gollah sleeps-the golden band
About his head is bound;
His javelin in his red right hand,
His feet upon his hound.

And twice three golden rings are placed

Upon that hand of fear;

The smallest would go round the waist

Of any maiden here.

And plates of gold are on his breast;
And gold doth bind him round;

A king, he taketh kingly rest

Beneath that royal mound.

But wealth no more the mountain fills

As in the days of

yore:

Gone are those days; the wave distils

Its liquid gold no more.

The days of yore-still let my harp
Their memories repeat-

The days when every sword was sharp,
And every song was sweet;
The warrior slumbers on the hill,
The stranger rules the plain;
Glory and gold are gone; but still
They live in song again.

THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRESIDE.

This is from a well-known book called Queechy, by Miss WETHERELL, an American authoress.

By the old hearthstone a spirit dwells,

The child of bygone years

He lieth hid, the stone amid,

And liveth on smiles and tears.

But when the night is drawing on,
And the fire burns clear and bright,
He cometh out, and walketh about
In the pleasant grave twilight.

He goeth round on tiptoe soft

And scanneth close each face;
If one in the room be sunk in gloom,
By him he taketh his place.

And then with fingers cool and soft

(Their touch who does not know?)

With water brought from the well of thought
That was dug long years ago,

He layeth his hand on the weary eyes;
They are closed and quiet now-
And he wipeth away the dust of the day
That hath settled on the brow.