Behold him perch'd in ecstasies, My sight he dazzles, half deceives, As if by that exulting strain He mock'd and treated with disdain WORDSWORTH. TO MY CHILD. THEY say thou art not fair to others' eyes, Art thou not beautiful?-To me it seems The very pillow which thy head hath prest That sweet tears rise at thought of it and thee; The mother's lingering gaze, and long good night! Yea, even thy shadow, as slanting falls, Art thou not beautiful?—I hear thy voice- Come gladly bounding o'er the damp spring-earth. Beauty is that which dazzles-that which strikes- Yet are there things which through the gazing eye And therefore did the discontented heart HON. MRS. NORTON. REFLECTIONS OF A BELLE. I'm weary of the crowded ball; I'm weary of the mirth, Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth; I'm weary of the flatterer's tone: its music is no more, And eye and lip may answer not its meaning as before; I'm weary of the heartless throng-of being deem'd as one, Whose spirit kindles only in the blaze of fashion's sun. I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my spirit knelt; Mine is the requiem of years, in reckless folly pass'd, The wail above departed hopes, on a frail venture cast, The vain regret, that steals above the wreck of squander'd hours, Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the faded flowers. Oh! it is worse than mockery to list the flatterer's tone, To lend a ready ear to thoughts the cheek must blush to own, To hear the red lip whisper'd of, and the flowing curl and eye Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and high, And the charm of person worshipp'd, in a homage offered not To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought. Away! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given, Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaven; 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 welcome guest of settled spring, Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, As fables tell, an Indian sage, The Hindostani woods among, I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, 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 Were you in Asia? O, relate If there your fabled sister's woes Her nuptials with the rose. I would inquire how, journeying long But if, as colder breezes blow, And linger torpid here; Thus to life, what favouring dream Or if, by instinct taught to know, |