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Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning smile that play'd,

In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's self had made!

And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her

way,

Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd would ever know decay ;

She had no winter in her note, but evermore would sing

(What darker season had she proved?) of spring-of only spring!

Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so bright,

The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should blight;

Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant brow o'ercast,

And make her beauty-like her bliss-a shadow of the past!

Years came and went

change was there!

et again,-but what a

The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of despair;

The fitful flushing of the cheek,-the lips compress'd and thin,

The clench of the attenuate hands,-proclaim'd the strife within!

Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying power had given

Beauty, of more than mortal birth, a spell that breathed of heaven ;

And as she bent, resign'd and meek, beneath the chastening blow,

With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd to glow!

No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour was spoken,

For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted pledges broken;

Like Him who for his murderers pray'd,-she wept, but did not chide,

And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died!

Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond woman's truth;

Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth:

And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved and lost,

That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most!

A. A. WATTS.

TO A CHILD.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind?

For thou in every wight that passes
Dost now a friendly playmate find!

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
"Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token!

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging!

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure!

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing!
Well; let it be! through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change!
MISS BAILLIE.

POETRY

THE world is full of Poetry-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high,
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.

The year leads round the seasons, in a choir
For ever charming, and for ever new;
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful and the tender, in one strain,

Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand
Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven.

"Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move
In measured file, and metrical array;
"Tis not the union of returning sounds,
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme,
And quantity, and accent, that can give
This all pervading spirit to the ear,

Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
"Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines
Man with the world around him, in a chain
Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till
He tastes the high communion of his thoughts,
With all existences, in earth and heaven
That meet him in the charm of grace and power.
'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays,
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet,

And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts,
Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments
That overload their littleness. Its words
Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break
Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired
The holy prophet, when his lips were coals,
His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts
Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath,
Commission'd to affright us, and destroy.

J. G. PERCIVAL

MODERN GREECE.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the line where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it would impart

The doom he dreads yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore;

"Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Her's is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That line which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams but warms no more its cherished earth!

BYRON.

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