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And so my heart's despair
When the sun-burst is o'er,
But never once I dare
Then that lost form appears,
So with Promethean moan,
In beauty art thou gone;
THE DYING MINSTREL.
By MARY ANN BROWNE.
She had come from her own delicious clime, With its vineyards and groves of the chesnut and lime; From the flowers that bask'd 'neath unbounded skies, Various and bright as the rainbow's dyes; From the tongues that praised her, the hearts that adored, From the valleys and hills that her first songs heard, She was lured from her land of sunshine and smiles, By the meteor hope, that so many beguiles. And now she was dying !-dying afar, With clouded hopes, and an altered star; And her couch by strangers' hands was spread, And unknown steps were around her bed. She fear'd not death-she knew it must come, But she thought 'twould be sweet to die at home; But, alas ! she knew that her wish was vain, And she never must see her dear land again!
'Twas a summer-sunset, and that soft hour On the minstrel's soul had ever most power; And she pray'd she might leave the feverish hearth, And again in the calm light of even go forth. They led her out by the darkening sea, And she thought of her own bright Italy, And turn'd her eyes o'er the twilight wave, Towards the spot where she wish'd so much for a grave. She took her harp,-o'er each trembling string Her fingers soon were wandering;
Drawing forth note by note at first,
Careless of what the strain might be,
Into a sweet wild symphony:
While a tear was straying down her cheek,.
And then her song no more was weak;
And there came an unearthly light o'er her eye,
But the song died away—and with it, too,
By J. DENNIS.
Down by the woods, where the blooming purple heather
Chaunting some old ballad, some wild and artless measure;
with pleasure, Flew lightly at the whispering of lovers' fervent vows. And sometimes on the page such a glorious light would
glistenSuch a flash from out the ether of a bright and purer sphere That we closed the book with wonder, and sat us down to For we thought that angel voices were singing to us near. Glimpses of a golden future, tender memories of the past, Hopes of deep and solemn import, from their spirit-home
aboveSlightly veiled from our seeing by the glory round them
castCome like mirror'd shapes before us when the soul is fill'd
with love. And the light which love had kindled had shed its halo
round us As we gazed upon the woodland with its old majestic trees, Mid the depth of nature's stillness how its silken fetters
bound us, And the secrets of the future were whisper'd 'mong the
leaves. Not the noblest strain of music pealing through the solemn
aisles, Till the old cathedral towers seem to vibrate with the spell, Fills the spirit with such rapture, or the fancy so beguiles, As the music of love's making on the chords it knows so
well. Years have flown-for youth is fleeting-love is like a
stranger guest; Yet the memory of its glory melts like music on our souls; Wits may sneer and fools deride it, pointing with a courtly
jest But the passions of the morning manhood's calmer noon
THE QUARRY MAN.
With the sweat upon his brow, Tearing, with sinewy arm and strong,
Huge blocks from their beds below! Little he knows, or seeks to ken,
Of all the great world beside ;
Or if tyrants realms divide.
Or of costly pampering wines ;
On the rude rock where he dines. That ruddy child, besmeared o'er
With black berries ripe, hathcome With his frugal meal across the moor,
From a lowly cottage home. Again he seeks the ponderous rock,
And he strikes with giant might: The work of ages feels the shock,
And it rushes into light !
His time is measured by the sun
Now he hails its western ray; Another hard day's toil is done,
And he whistles on his way.
Cheerly along the lone green lane,
To his straw-thatch'd cot he goes ; He hears his children's voice again,
And 'tis there his joys repose.