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To waft me from distraction : once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so

moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and, drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill;
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent as we stand in thoughts too deep :-
All heaven and earth are still : from the high host
of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentred in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

BYRON.

OH! BAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW. On! say not 't were a keener blow

To lose a child of riper years, You cannot feel a mother's woe,

You cannot dry a mother's tears;
The girl who rears a sickly plant,

Or cherishes a wounded dove,
Will love them most, while most they want

The watchfulness of love!
Time must have changed that fair young brow!

Time might have changed that spotless heart! Years might have taught deceit—but now

In love's confiding dawn-we part! Ere pain or grief had wrought decay,

My babe is cradled in the tomb;
Like some fair blossom torn away

Before its perfect bloom.
With thoughts of peril and of storm,

We see a bark first touch the wave;
But distant seems the whirlwind's form,

As distant as an infant's grave!
Though all is calm, that beauteous ship

Must brave the whirlwind's rudest breath;
Though all is calm, that infant's lip
Must meet the kiss of Death!

T. H. BAILEY.

A REMEMBERED FACE.
Au there!-and comest thou thus again

Thou phantom of delight?
How oft, in hours of lonely pain,

Thou risest on my sight!
Since last we met, what suns have known

Their rising and decline!
But none of all those suns have shown

A fairer face than thine.

"Tis many a year since I look'd on

Those meek and loving eyes;
And thousands since have come and gone,

Like meteors through the skies.
But thine-they often come to me,
_With lustre so benign,
Though memory of all others flee,

"T will make but dearer thine.
As not alone, the gorgeous arch
· Reard in heaven's summer dome,
Gleams proudly on its silent march,

And heralds good to come,
But leaves, where'er its glory pass'd,

A fragrancy divine,*
So freshly on my soul is cast

The odorous light of thine.

Then welcome to my lonely hours,

Thou visionary thing,
Come with thy coronal of flowers,

Flowers of a vanish'd spring.
For gleeful souls let others roam,

But, till life's cords untwine,
In my heart's depth shall find a home
That pensive face of thine.

William HowITT

ST. VALERIE.

RAISED on the rocky barriers of the sea, Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie! Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine-trees tall Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall,

*"The ancients," says Lord Bacon, in his "Ten Centuries of Natural History," "believed that where the rainbow rested it left a delicate and heavenly odour."

Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep
Of mountain waters rushing to the deep,
The tempest's midnight song, the battle-cry
Of warring winds, like armies met on high,
And in a silent hour the convent chime,
And sometimes, at the quiet evening time
A vesper song—those tones, so pure, so sweet,
When airs of earth and words of heaven do meet!
Sad is the legend of that young Saint's doom!
When the Spring Rose was in its May of bloom,
The storm was darkening; at that sweet hour
When hands beloved had rear'd her nuptial bower,
The pestilence came o’er the land, and he

With whom her heart was, died that very mornHer bridal morn! Alas, that there should be

Such evils ever for affection born!
She shrank away from earth, and solitude

Is the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain;
Life had no ties, she turn'd her unto heaven,

And on the steep rock rear'd her holy fane.
It has an air of sadness, as just meet
For the so broken heart's last lone retreat!
A portrait here has still preserved each charm:
I saw it one bright evening, when the warm
Last glow of sunset shed its crimson ray
Over the lovely image. She was fair
As those most radiant spirits of the air
Whose life is amid flowers; like the day,
The golden summer day, her glossy hair
Fell o'er a brow of Indian ivory;
Her cheek was pale, and in her large dark eye
There was a thought of sorrow, and her brow
Upon one small snow hand lean'd pensively,
As if to hide her tears ;-the other press'd
A silver crucifix upon her breast.
I ne'er saw sadness touching as in thee
And thy lorn look, oh fair ST. VALERIE!

Miss LANDON.

STANZAS THEY say that the light of her eyes is gone, That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan; That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild, Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child. For the melting glance of her soft blue eye Is chill'd by cold insanity; And the beauty that her bright form wore, Is the shrine of a living soul no more. And her words discourse not music sent From reason's govern'd instrument; But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play. I would not look on her alter'd brow, Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now; I would not view her pale, pale cheek, Nor hear her, in her madness, speak; Nor see her smile, she knows not why, While her tears flow down unmeaningly; Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token Of a brain o'erwrought, and a young heart broken. No-on these things I would not look, For the brightest gift in Fortune's book; For she was join'd with the fairest things That rose in my youth's imaginings. And oh! how oft have I turn'd away From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay, That my soul might drink, to sweet excess, The light of her pensive loveliness. But her languid eye shall charm no more, Her smiles and her tears—they are nearly o'er; For fond hopes lost, and her heart o'erladen, Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.

ANON.

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