Song.

THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream.

To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget,

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shoné,

And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that

gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was

gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!

All that's bright must fade.

ALL that's bright must fade,
The brightest still the fleetest,
All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest.

Stars that shine and fall,

The flow'r that droops in springing, These alas! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging.

Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?

BYRON.

Address to the Orean.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal, From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's image, save his

own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into the depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he
wields

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering on thy playful spray,
And howling to his Gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters wasted them while they were free And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to desserts;---not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves playTime writes no wrinkle on thy azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convuls'd-in breeze or gale, or storm
Icing the pole; or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless and sublime,
The image of eternity-the throne.

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth dread fathomless alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and if the fresh'ning sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here.

I MADE a footing in the wall,

It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all,

Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me:

No child no sire-no kin had I,

No partner in my misery;

I thought of this, and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend

To my barr'd windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.

I saw them—and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high-their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channell❜d rock and broken bush ;
I saw the white wall'd distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;