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I will not bow a tameless heart to fashion's iron rule, Nor welcome, with a smile, alike the gifted and the

fool: No-let the throng pass coldly on; a treasure few

may find, The charm of person doubly dear beneath the light of mind.

N. E. WEEKLY REVIEW.,

THE SWALLOW.
THE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and beneath
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath of May.
The welcome guest of settled spring,

The swallow, too, is come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,

And hail'd her as she pass’d.
Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch

At the gray dawn of day.
As fables tell, an Indian sage,

The Hindostani woods among,
Could, in his desert hermitage,
As if 't were mark'd in written page,

Translate the wild bird's song.
I wish I did his power possess,

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee,
What our vain systems only guess,
And know froin what wide wilderness

You came across the sea.

I would a little while restrain

Your rapid wing, that I might hear
Whether on clouds, that bring the rain,
You sail'd above the western main,

The wind your charioteer.
In Afric does the sultry gale

Through spicy bower and palmy grove
Bear the repeated cuckoo's tale?
Dwells there a time the wand'ring quail,

Or the itinerant dove?

Were you in Asia ? O, relate

If there your fabled sister's woes
She seem'd in sorrow to narrate .
Or sings she but to celebrate

Her nuptials with the rose.
I would inquire how, journeying long

The vast and pathless ocean o er,
You ply again those pinions strong,
And come to build anew among

• The scenes you left before ;
But if, as colder breezes blow,

Prophetic of the warning year,
You hide,

though none know when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow,

And linger torpid here;
Thus to life, what favouring dream

Bids you to happier hours awake,
And tells that, dancing in the beam,
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream,

The May-fly on the lake.
Or if, by instinct taught to know,

Approaching dearth of insect food,
To isles and willowy aits you go,
And, crowding on the pliant bough,

Sink in the dimpling flood.

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How learn ye, while the cold waves boom

Your deep and cozy couch above,
The time when flowers of promise bloom,
And call you from your transient tomb,

To light and life and love?
Alas! how little can be known

Her sacred veil where Nature draws:!
Let baffled Science humbly own
Her mysteries, understood alone
By Him who gives her

laws.
CHARLOTTE SMITH.

ODE TO EVENING.
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear

Like thy own modest springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O’erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leather wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy d ark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return !

For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours and elves

Who slept in buds the day;
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin ʼmidst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering

winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side

Views wild and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er ali

Thy dewy fingers drew

The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest E
While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy In
Or Winter, yelling through the
Affrights thy shrinking

train
And rudely rends thy robes
So long, regardful of thy quie
Shall fancy, Friendship, Scie

Thy gentle influence own,
And love thy favourite nam

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EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL. Hush! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young

heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in

prayer.

Gaze on,—'t is lovely! childhood's lip and cheek

Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought; Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressid,

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes; Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled

springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings

of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray.

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