How sad the exile from his native skies Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell-- No ear to catch his penitential sighs, No voice to soothe him in his last farewell. Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore, And gazes anxious on the main Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more; Then horror climbs the dusky wave, And beckons madness to her grave, Where, cradled by the surge to rest, Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest." Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms; Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms. TO CORDELIA. BY JOHN J. BAILEY. Smile not, sweet girl, 'tis even so-- Cordelia, smile not unbelieving; My words, though not so sweet, I know, As thine, were never _so_ deceiving. And if I _must_ be sworn to prove That I have said sincerely, thereby, I'd choose thy brow, so formed for love, To be the book I'd kissing swear by. Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vain-- I value not thy frowns a feather-- 'Tis not thy nature to retain An unkind thought for hours together. I envy not thy lover's joys, Nor flattering smiles that so endear them; Thy brittle chains caprice destroys; Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them? Yes! I could give thee many a name Of those who've waked thy tender bosom; A flame succeeding still to flame, Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em. Content to wound that bosom too, That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee; Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true, What joy could ranging thus afford thee? I trust an angel's form thou'lt wear E'er I ascend to yonder Heaven; Or I a tale could give in there, Would leave thee lost and unforgiven. SONG.--WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE. BY G. P. MORRIS. When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine; When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine. Then think how sad and lonely This wretched heart will be; Which, while it beats--beats only, Beloved one! for thee. Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains, I would not live without thee For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life's troubled sea, And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee. DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. Young mother, he is gone, His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast, No more the music tone Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest; His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee, Earth must his mother and his pillow be. His was the morning hour, And he hath passed in beauty from the day, A bud not yet a flower; Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray, The death wind swept him to his soft repose, As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.