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INSCRIPTION FOR A WATCH.
Could but our tempers move like this machine,
Db. J. Bybon.
FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES.
There is a fountain in the forest call'd
The Fountain of the Fairies. When a child,
With most delightful wonder, I have heard
Tales of the elfin tribe, that on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
It ever has been deem'd their fav'rite tree.
Tbey love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask them in the sunshine. Many a time
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round
On the green sward beneath its boughs bewrays
Their nightly dance, and bid him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
And made it holy: and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approach'd
Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure
That fill'd me by that solitary spring
Ceased not in riper years; and now it woke
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.
The sorrows which the soul endures,
Not self-inflicted, are but hooded joys,
That when she touches the white strand of heaven,
They cluster round her and slip off" their robes,
And laugh out angels in the world of light.
J. Stahyan Bioo.
The following song hy Mr. Sillery is extremely elegant, and worthy of a place in a collection of poetry. It is what it professes to be, and it aims at nothing more, and that is a very great merit.
She died in beauty!—like a rose
Blown from its parent stem:
Dropp'd from some diadem.
Along a moonlit lake:
Of birds amid the brake.
On flowers dissolved away:
Lost on the brow of day.
Set round the silver moon!
Amid the blue of June!
THE GIPSY'S MALISON.
A very strange sonnet by Charles Lamn, published in Blackwood's Magazine. In his letters he speaks of it as "curiously and perversely elaborate." It is certainly a curiosity in its way. But it contains some very fine poetry.
Suck, baby suck! mother's love grows by giving,
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living
Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. Kiss, baby kiss; mother's lips shine by kisses,
Choke the warm blood that else would fell in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. Hang, baby hang! mother's love loves such forces,
Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging.
A IfOVSDEL FOB MAY.
In a volume of Calder Campbell's Poems we hare fonnd a very lively lyric which cannot fail to please the reader. Some faults it has, bat then it has no pretensions which it does not sustain; it professes to be nothing beyond a sprightly sketch.
May dew! May dew!—The fairies brew
Their wizard wine of the fresh May dew;
And the drops, with their breaths have breathed upon,
Ere lipped by the kiss of the sultry sun,
Cosmetic spell and influence own
To fix bright beauty on its throne!
Oh! the ladye looks well in her simple vest,
When the girdle of gold clips her heaving breast,—
When the costly gems of her proud tiar
Sparkle, more bright than the brightest star,—
And the burnished gloss of her raven hair
Gleams in the blaze of the revel there;
But better she looks, in her morning attire,
When she fares forth to list to the woodland quire,
Better she looks, to the lover's view,
May dew! May dew !—The fairies strew
A philter powder over you,
That lends to the cheek a richer glow,
And adds a grace to the living snow,—
—The Baron asks for his favourite child,—
"Where hath she sped in her frolic wild?
The garden hath roses, hath she gone there,
To cull a braid for her radiant hair ?—
The orchard hath fruits, just ripening red,
Hath she stolen there from her downy bed ?—
Her minion fawn hath fled to the wood,
Where the foe of my house and the bane of my blood,
Hath built him a hunting bower so gay,—
Forefend that my child should have gone that way?"
"Oh, no!" cried a page, "'tis the month of May,
And down in the mead where the urchins play,
She busies herself, while the day is new,
May dew! May dew!—A moon for you,
And every morn of the month of May,
Gathering dew by the early day,
Was seen the lady Christabel,
Tended by one who loved her well!
The Baron was lame, so he could not walk—
The Lady was loved, as none would talk—
The Baron was blind, and he could not tell
That the gallant Knight with Christabel
Was the foe of his house, and the bane of his blood;
And the wily page that near him stood,
Said, aye and anon, with a laughing mien,
"'Tis old nurse Alice in coif of green,
Who walks with our Lady, faithful and true,
May dew! May dew!—A month for you,
THE GIPSY BEGGAR.
In all ages and countries the parental affections hare afforded the happiest themes for poetry. In a volume by a Mr. Bukbidge we have noticed one which to us appears worthy of a place in any selection of poetry. The tale is told with admirable simplicity, aud the outburst of natural feeling, betraying the beggar's artifice, is one of those truthful pictures that proclaim man's common nature and prove that " we have all of us one human heart."
They gave him nought; he turn'd away
With such a sufferance as is bred
Both of the heart and head.
I follow'd on that lordly train—
Their laugh yet rang upon the ear—
Just round an elbow of the lane;
And me the gipsy asked again
For alms: he had no home, he said,
No wife, no children; all were dead;
He was alone on earth, he said,
'Twas cunningly devised to move
And more his seeming want of love
That tender depths of pity clove,
His was an ancient Roman's face,
So statue-like in shape, and yet
To its continual fret.
It glanced ten times while yet he spoke,
On me—upon his tatter'd cloak—
Upon an imp, that wildly broke
I look'd upon the boy and him,
Only the younger was less grim
To see, his cheek more dewy-dim,