To Mary-The Reconciliation, a Rondeau.

Then should fickle Fortune ordain,

Your SELIM from hence to remove,
Will you, while you warble that strain,
Bestow a fond thought on your love?

Some seraph will waft me the sound,
And whisper the joy to my heart;
Though absence must cruelly wound,
I'll listen, forgetting its smart.

Then grant that such joy I may find,
Should fate ever tear me from thee;

For me let the strain be design'd-
Be FATIMA only to me.

THE RECONCILIATION.

And did I upbraid you my love?
O pardon the fault I deplore,
For while you thus sweetly reprove,
I feel I can never doubt more.
No-no-no-I shall never doubt you more.

I own I suspected your truth,
And envied a rival's success;

For jealousy pictured a youth

Whom pity would prompt you to bless.

Whom pity-pity-pity would prompt you to bless.

The Reconciliation-a Rondeau.

And did I upbraid you, my love?
O pardon the fault I deplore;
For while you thus sweetly reprove,
I feel I can never doubt more.

No-no-no-I shall never doubt you more.

My doubts I now give to the wind, For Mary is constant as fair, Though lately I thought her unkind, And gave myself up to despair. Despair-despair-despair-and gave myself up to

despair.

And did I upbraid you, my love?
O pardon the fault I deplore;
For while you thus sweetly reprove,

I feel I can never doubt more.

No-no-no-I shall never doubt you more.

NOTE.

Many of the foregoing pieces having appeared in different periodical publications, under the signature of SELIM, produced the following poetical Correspondence between the author and an anonymous female writer, assuming the name of ZORAYDA. The New-York Columbian was made the vehicle of this correspondence.

Zorayda to Selim.

TO SELIM.

ENCHANTING MINSTREL ! to whose lay
My pulses would responsive play
Till reason yield her genial sway
To fascination's power;

I grieve that Fate should be so hard,
That Fortune shuns a modern bard,
Who vainly asks of Fame reward,
A laurel or a flower.

You wake your magic lyre in vain, And fruitless bid its chords complain; All listen, all admire the strain,

And wonder whence it flows:

But were the world inform'd with truth, Patrons would never raise the youth, Envy would show his venom'd tooth, And scorn increase his woes.

Such is a modern poet's fate,

Unless his sphere is with the great, Where gold will give his genius weight,

And purchase smiles of Fame.

But, ah! a bard, with soul of fire,

Tho' blest with Pope's or Milton's lyre,

If lowly born, must scarce aspire

To lisp her envied name.

Selim to Zorayda.

Then, SELIM, throw thy lyre away,
Nor deign to waste its dulcet lay,
On souls who cannot, while you play,
Appreciate the strain;

Whose prejudice forbids to know

The sweets which in your numbers flow,
Inspiring joy, relieving wo,

And lessening every pain.

TO ZORAYDA.

Does SELIM wake his lyre in vain,
And fruitless breathe the pensive strain,
Because his brows no laurel gain,
And he obscurely sings?

As well might fair Zorayda say
The sylvan fountains vainly play,

Where forests hide their darkened way,
And rocks conceal their springs.

But, lovely minstrel ! learn to know,
Their streamlets kiss the meads below,
Who drink, unconscious whence they flow,
And thence derive their smile;