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TO THE POET. By FREDERICK TENNYSON, a brother of the Poet Laureate. O GENTLE Poet, whosoe'er thou art,

Whom God hath gifted with a loving eye,
A sweet and mournful voice, a tender heart,

Pass by the world, and let it pass thee by ;
Be thou to Nature faithful still, and she
Will be for ever faithful unto thee.

Let them disdain thee for thy just disdain :

Shield thou thy heart against the world accurst, Where they discourse of joy, and ache with pain,

And babble of good deeds, and do the worst; Shed dews of mercy on their wither'd scorn, And touch their midnight darkness with thy morn. There blind Ambition barters peace for praise ;

There Pride ne'er sleeps, nor Hatred waxeth old; And dwarfish Folly can his cubit raise

To godlike stature on a little gold;
There Madness is a king, and ev'n the wise
Sell truth to simpletons, and live on lies;
There Pleasure is a sickly meteor-light,

A star above—a pestilence below;
There knowledge is a cup of aconite,

That chills the heart, and makes the pulses slow;
Remorse, a scorpion's self-destroying sting,
Sorrow, a Winter without hope of Spring.
There Love's clear torch is quench'd as in a tomb,

Or bound for ever in a golden band
He drags, with eyes fix'd on his early doom,

Behind lean avarice with the iron hand :
Fancy, that fill'd the woodlands with his glee,
Scorns at himself, and murmurs to be free.

There Justice, inindless of her holy name,

Creeps o'er the slime with adder's ears and eyes, Stirs with dark hand the World-involving flame,

Thirsteth for tears, and hungers after sighs;
There Honour is a game to lose or win;
And Sanctity a softer name for Sin.

For thee 'tis better to remain apart,

Like one who dwells beneath the forest green, And listens far off to the beating heart

Of the wide world, all-seeing, though unseen : In a cool cavern, on a mountain side, With rare, sweet flowers, and virgin springs supplied.

Hark thou the voices from the peopled plain

In tuneful echoes murmuring in thine ears, Watch thou the sunshine mingle with the rain,

And mark how gladness interweaves with tears, And ply thy secret, holy alchemy, Like God, who gives thee work, when none are by.

And from the twilight of thy solitude

Note thou the lights and shadows of the sky,
And cast the mighty shapes of Evil and Good

In perfest moulds of Immortality,
Till they are seen from far, like mountain-light,
That burns on high, when all below is night.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

A fragment from BARRY CORNWALL..
Neiph. Come on, come on.- A little further on,
And we shall reach a place where we may pause.
It is a meadow full of the early spring :
Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind,
And never-ending odorous lemon trees;
Wild flowers in blossom, and sweet citron buds,
And princely cedars; and the linden boughs
Make arched walks for love to whisper in.
If you be tired, lie down, and you shall hear
A river, which doth kiss irregular banks,
Enchant your senses with a sleepy tune.
If not, and merry blood doth stir your veins,
The place hath still a fair and pleasant aspect :
For, in the midst of this green meadow, springs
A fountain of white marble; o'er whose sides
Run stories, graven by some cunning hand,
Of pastoral life, and tipsy revelry.

There will we, midst delicious cates, and wines
Sparkling and amorous, and sweet instruments,
Sing gentle mischief as the sun goes down.
Quick! but a few steps more—'round by this copse
Of olives and young chestnuts, (to whose arms
The vines seem clinging, like so many brides,)
And you will reach 't. Ha, Stay!-Look! here it is.

Fiamet. Ha, ha! Ha, ba !-Look! how Philostratus Buries his forehead in the fresh green grass.

Pamphilus. Hail, vernal spot! We bear to thy embrace Pleasures that ask for calm; Love, and Delight; Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells; Smiles without treach'ry; words all soft and true; Music like morning, fresh and full of youth; And all else that belongs to gentleness.

THE DEMON BRIDE.

The following curious poem was found among the neglected manuscripts of a young physician, who has long abandoned the poetic art for more practical, and certainly more profitable, pursuits. It appears to as to embody much of the felicity of diction and wild beauty of Goethe's Bride of Corinth ; at least it is the nearest English approximation to that poem which we know of.

In the ages which we call benighted,

And the German's old and wondrous land,
In an upmost story dimly lighted,
By a long and narrow wooden stand,

Darkly stain'd with blood,

The Dissector stood,
Held a purpled knife within his hand.

'Twas late, and all his comrades had departed,

Left him at his table there alone;
On the dreamy student, heavy-hearted,
Midnight stars in silent wonder shone;

From his eyes there came

Flashes, as of flame,
Born of sorrows to the world unknown.

To the churchyard in the moonlit meadow

Earthly hopes and earthly joys were borne; Stolen to the land of dream and shadow From his bleeding heart, her heart was torn;

She his love allowed

But her kinsmen proud
Had repulsed his gentle suit with scorn.
Droop'd the lady with her crush'd devotion,

Nourish'd and conceal'd the fatal flame,
When her heart surceased its sacred motion,
Sister to the angels she became;

He, oppress'd with grief,

Sought a poor relief
In his studies of the human frame.
Quietly the youth a corpse uncover'd,

By the sunken drapery reveal'd;
Awful thoughts around him never hover'd
Near the dead ; his heart had long been steeld:

Starting with a thrill,

Stood he then as still
As a brook by winter winds congeal'd.
Lay before him there a beauteous maiden

(High born damsel), stolen from the tomb, Dead; but death had not her features laden With his characters of fearful gloom :

On her roseate face

Linger'd every trace
Of her girlhood's gentleness and bloom.
To her breast the hair hung down in tresses,

Curling like the tendrils of the vine;
Ripe her lip was for the sweet caresses,
Swoll'n with love, and red as if with wine:

Of the purest gold

And the lightest mould,
Finger-rings threw out their fairy shine.
Was the body and the chamber haunted ?

For the youth did not remove his gaze:
Like a marble shaft he stood enchanted,

And his eyes had frenzy in their blaze:

The Dissector's room

Lost to him its gloomWas surrounded with a golden baze. Hung with damask curtains seem'd the windows,

O'er the mantel tick'd the household chime; One small flame flared up from out the cinders ; Like a bed whereto a bride might climb

Seem'd his table, high

And broad unto his eye,
Deck'd with pillows of the olden time.

Lovingly upon the snowy linen

Lay the form of Beauty he beheld : Mouth and eyes were sparkling soft, and winning ; In ber breast the maiden fervour swell’d:

Manliest virtues melt;

He enamour'd felt;
To her heart his throbbing heart impell’d.

“ Art thou, lost one, come from blissful Eden

To assuage my bosom's burning pain? Nevermore, O rare and radiant maiden! Shall the fates dispart our souls again!

Heaven will not divide

Bridegroom from his bride :
Angels are singing now our marriage strain.”

On her neck he fell oppress'd and panting;

Blent his lip in madness with her own : · Round his form she lock'd her arms enchanting; Cold her arms as chiseled out of stone:

Droop'd his trembling head,

Sight and hearing fled,
And his soul dissolved in joys unknown.

When the sun threw from his burning quiver

Ray-like arrows beaming far and wide, Stark and cold lay out the pallid lover, Silent at the demon-maiden's side :

Death was on his brow,

Heaven had heard his vow,
And he was not parted from his bride.

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