Star.
London, England, 1830-09-04 00:00:00

FANTAZIA.
For the Second of September.

Well might the spirit of the Ancients swoon
l!pon tl.e labours of the struggling moon,
Yet passing lovely in her travail.—Well
Might tney be anxious to dissolve the spell
With noisy music to dissolve the charm,
t If incantation giving her alarm
A tweet relief, to have her silver light
Amompany the sables of the night.
Who can refrain from looking upon her,
With pity for so fair a sufferer !
For China, persevering to the last
IVith brazen vessels, and with trumpet Warn,
Your sympathy shall be rewarded soon
Ye Antidotards to the struggling moon.

AMERICAN POETRY.

The Printer's Hour of Pews.
Know ye the Printer's hour of peace?
Know ye an hour more fraught with joy,
Than ever felt the maid of Greece,

When kiss'd by Venus' am'rons boy.

'Tis not when round the mary eve,
His nimble fingers kin the types,
Nor Is it when with lengthen 'd face,
The sturdy devil's tad he gripes.

'Tis not when news of dreadful note,

Hiseolamns all with elision fill;
"Pis not when brother Printers quote
Tb' effusion of his stump-wen quill

'Tis not when all his work Si done,
Tied and fadgued as any dog,
And heedless of his coming dun,
Grows merry o'er a glass of pea
'Tis not when in Miss Palley's glass
Loog Adasrliseatists meet his eye,
And seem to whisper as they pass,
" Well grace your columns by and bye."
Nor is it when with numerous names
His lengthen'd roll of vellum swells,
As if %were touched by Conj'ror's wand,
Or grew by Fairies' magic spells.
No—Reader—no—the Printer's hoot,

His hour of real sweet repose,
L not when by some magic power,
His list of Patrons daily grows.
But, Oh, 'tls when the weather's clear,
Or clad in hail, or rain, or vapour,
He hears in accents soft and dear—
" I've come to PAY you for the PAP'S r

LINEA
DAITTIII TO A LADY IS DISTIDIS.
There is a world where we forget
The sorrows of this scene below ;
There is a balm for all regret,
A refuge foe the tears of woe.
Ifs faint weary pilgrim thou,
Enquiring where that realm may be,
And where the hunted soul may go
To hide it from its misery t
Look up ! It is in Heaven above,
Where grief is hush'd, and Gov is love
How many:a year to sorrow known
I wandered o'er the earth to find
A breast whereon my heart might gross.
Far from the murmurs of mankind.
But all proved callous and unkind;
illy anguish grew the more intense,
And mutely bore my maddened mind ;
Affliction's suing sense.:
I knew not then of Heaven above,
Where grief is hush'd, and GOD is love.
Loud shrieks the wintry blast beneath,
And scowls the cloud, and roan the storm
Fiera, mighty is the arm of Death,.
Tho' mw., his victim, but a worm.
Chafe the wild waves, with light•rdng warm,
And drives the hail along the sky,
And every gust but nevi alarm
To all born scarce to breathe and die !
Still--all is calm in Heaven above,
Where grief is hush'd—and GoD Is love.
But to that realm can we attain ?
Alas ! we can but weep and view.
Ah ! say not so, or mourn in vain,
For GoD bath borne this burthen too
The scourge—the garden—and the wreath—
The darkness—aoss—and soldier's spear;
His sacred life—and silent death
Proclaim—" A moment GoD was bore !*
To man belong the realms above,
Where grief is hush'd—and GOD IS LOVE.

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