I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art
Hath made my spirit holy.

Her eye-as soft and blue as even,

When day and night are calmly meetingBeams on my heart like light from heaven, And purifies its beating.

The accents fall from Tamar's lip

Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping, When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

And cannot cease their sipping.

The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,
For ever coming-ever going,
May well the spotless fount bespeak
That sets the stream a-flowing.

Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast

Even like the harp-string's holiest measures,

When dreams the soul of lands of rest

And everlasting pleasures.

Then ask not what hath changed my heart,
Or where hath fled my youthful folly-
I tell thee Tamar's virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.

KNOX.

LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream
Which through dark alders winds its shaded way,
My suppliant voice is heard; ah! do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away.

In the recesses of the forest vale,

On the wild mountains, on the verdant sod,
When the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely communing with God.

When the faint sickness of a wounded heart Creeps in cold shudderings through my panting frame,

I turn to THEE-that holy peace impart,
Which sooths the invokers of Thy awful name.

O! All-pervading Spirit! Sacred Beam,
Parent of life and light, Eternal Power,
Grant me through obvious clouds one transient
beam

Of Thy bright essence in my dying hour.

* These verses are attributed to Mr Beckford, the eccentric author of Caliph Vathek, and the late owner of Fonthill Abbey.

THE END.

Oliver & Boyd, Printers.