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(Before the heart took fire and wither'd life)
When childhood might pair equally with birds;
But now ... the birds were grown too proud for us!
Alas, the very sun forbids the dew.
And I-I had come back to an empty nest
Which every bird's too wise for.
THE OLD MILL.
Extracted from one of the American Magazines.
UNDER the hill
Standeth the quiet mill.
Deep are the shadows that gather below
Under the dripping flume-
Dreamy the water's musical glow,
Down in the noonday gloom.
Many a year
The phebe hath builded here,
Morning and night from the broken door
Chanting her solemn strain,
She sits where the sunshine checkers the floor,
Singing of what has been.
The green quiescent tide,
The maples lift up in the airs of spring
Their tufts of vermeil flowers,
And the afternoon robin stops to sing
His song in the twilight hours.
Day by day,
Musing and watching his prey,'
The silent kingfisher sits on high,
Dreaming under the leaves,
Where the fitful breezes wander by,
And the birch its fragrance gives.
Through the trees
That almost mingle their leaves,
Steals down the blue of the summer sky,
Down where the lilies grow;
And the sudden swallow flitting by,
Dips his blue wings below.
From hidden springs,
Where the mottled ground thrush sings,
And willows, and ferns, and water-docks stand,
Sliding along through the quiet profound;
With babble of banks and shining sand,
The trout-haunted brook comes down
Mingling its tune
Dreamily all the afternoon,
With the tinkling echoes down in the wood,
Where the cattle stand in the dell;
And the cool dull plash of the dripping flood
Beating the broken wheel.
In the light of the open day,
With the sunshine glowing along their banks,
Over the dam and the trees,
The clouds are marshall'd in yellow ranks,
Gleaming beyond the leaves.
Large and fair
Were the castles I built in the air,
Lifting on high their golden walls,
With domes of the summer blue,
And pillars of cloud and far-reaching halls,
And the bright years shining through.
In its green and quiet decay,
With its shatter'd windows and broken wall,
Is this crumbling tottering thing;
With the sunshine of memory over all,
And the silence of death within,
THE COMING IN OF NIGHT. The following, by an old and almost unknown poet named BROWNE, a Devonshire man, might have adorned the pages of Spenser himself. The ascension of the fogs and mists, and the cessation of all noise, are
in a true—nay, a high spirit of grandeur; and the very delicacy of the conclusion adds to it. The sense of hushing solemnity is drawn to the finest point.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne,
That on the dancing waves in glory shone;
For whose declining on the western shore
The oriental hills black mantles wore;
And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,
That had from hideous caverns ushered
All drowsy night : who in a car of jet,
By steeds of iron-grey (which mainly sweat
Moist drops on all the world) drawn through the sky,
The helps of darkness waited orderly.
First, thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains ;
Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins
Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;
From standing pools and fens were following
Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill,
Sent up their vapours to attend their will.
These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven,
And as night's chariot through the air was driven,
Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song,
And silence girt the woods ; no warbling tongue
Talk'd to the echo; satyrs broke their dance,
And all the upper world lay in a trance.
Only the curly streams soft chidings kept;
And little gales that from the green leaf swept ;
Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp’rings stirrd,
As loth to waken any singing bird.
Found in one of the Annuals, the Author's name was not stated.
FAREWELL Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,-
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows
I smell the mould above the rose !
Welcome Life! the Spirit strives !
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,-
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-
I smell the rose above the mould.
THE LAPSE OF TIME.
By W. C. BRYANT, the American poet.
LAMENT who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly,
I sigh not over vanish'd years,
But watch the years that hasten by. Look how they come! a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
What! grieve that Time has brought so soon
The sober age of manbood on; As idly might I weep at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone. Could I forego the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles, And let the charming future go
With all her promises and smiles.
The future! cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart, Thou sweetener of the present hour,
We cannot—no we must not part. Oh! leave me still the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay; The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day.
The months that touch with added grace,
This little prattler at my knee;
In whose arch eye, and speaking face,
New meaning every hour I see.
Time, Time will seam and blanch my brow,
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
"A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonour lie
Upon my head when I am grey,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time-'tis kindness all
That speeds thy wing'd feet so fast,
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bearest away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
Tbe memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
By H. Rowland Brown. WELL may we welcome Christmas with song and chime of
bells, For round the hearts of all on earth he casts his mystic
spells; He opens with the magic key of kindness every heart, And smiles to see the memory of sorrows past depart; He comes with mirth and laughter, with carol and with glee, And th’ gladdest time of all the year is Christmas time
to me. I love to hear kind voices! I love to see bright eyes ! I love to hear from joyous bells the gladsome peans