That holds the name of every brother fool. Of various passions that divide the breast, Pride reigns supreme and governs all the rest; Its form is varied, but to all supplied In equal shares, however modified. Blest source of action, whose perpetual strife With sluggish nature, warms us into life; Thou great first mover, 'tis alone from thee That life derives its sweet diversity. Yet hapless he, whose ill-directed pride With soft seduction draws his steps aside From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite; With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height. Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose, A friend's defection, and the spleen of foes. Black calumny invents her thousand lies, And sickly envy blasts him if he rise-- He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules, Must think and act no more like other fools: For him no more that social ease remains Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains; Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen, To search for faults it spares in other men. How shall he wish in vain, once more his own, That hour when free, and to the world unknown, Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown. THE FAREWELL. BY JOHN I. BAILEY. Oh! leave me still thy tender heart, Though love's delirious reign is over; I, too, will act the traitor's part-- Cordelia-like, become a rover. No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine, That beam as sweetly on another, Save with the feelings pure that twine Around the bosom of a brother. Loved smiles! that once around me shone, And waked to feelings of devotion; Thy sway is past, thy charm is gone-- Thou art resigned without emotion. No more to charm my wildered dream, Or hope's delusive joys to heighten; O'er my lone heart thy cheerless beam Falls, but has lost the power to brighten. The auburn ringlets of thy hair May twine as graceful still, and let them-- Those locks were once as loved as fair, Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them. Yes! I could view those curls entwine Around another's hand that wreath'd them; Unmoved, recall those tones divine, Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them! Thy form no longer wears the spell, As when a lover's dreams it haunted; Nor can affection fondly dwell On every grace that once enchanted. Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain; Go! yield thy charms to bless another; I would not seek their wiles again, I only ask--to be thy brother. SONNET TO MYRA. BY A. L. BLAUVELT.