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When the delusion dies !" “Tremblest thou,” hiss'd the serpent-herd in scorn,
“Before the vain deceit ?
The sick world's solemn cheat ?
But for the veil that bides, revered alone;
On conscience' troubled glass
Of the cold sepulchrem
Giv'st thou for hope (corruption proves its lie)
Sure joy that most delights us?
What after death requites us!”
Nature herself, interr'd
There came no corpse to whisper Hope! Still I
Judge !-All my joys to thee did I resign,
All that did most delight me; And now I kneel-man's scorn I scorn'd; thy shrine Have I adored–Thee only held divine
Requiter, now requite me!
And equal each condition,"
The Hope and the Fruition.
The sister's forfeit bloom :
Is the world's judgment doom.
Thou hast had hope—in thy belief thy prize
Thy bliss was centred in it: Eternity itself—(Go ask the Wise!) Never to him who forfeits, resupplies
The sum struck from the Minute!"
THE SOUTHERN LANDS.
Binds river and field and hill,
And the north wind bloweth chill,
The starlings starve in bands,
And flies to the southern lands.
To the glorious southern lands,
The lands of kindly skies,
The thoughtful swallow flies.
When poverty comes, like winter,
Chilling hearts and staying bands,
Sit down in despairing bands?
That for ever holds us back?
And follow in her track.
For us there are kindlier climates,
Where await us homes and wealth,
And breezes fraught with health:
We tread the crowded way,
Earn a pi:tance from day to day.
But there we should work with pleasure,
For the gain is sure and sweet,
Instead of the crowded street;
And dwell in our own dear cot,
For ourselves a brighter lot.
No longer we'll wait and weep,
No longer we'll starve in bands;
To follow to southern lands.
Who fears a sheeted spectre
Up the hall stairs gliding slow ?
In the tower that rocketh so ?
But not a man, I trow.
Not from without, but from within
Come spectres to appal-
And the goblin-trodden hall,
Upon the present fall.
There, youthful feelings from the death
Of youth itself revived,
In memory's charnel hived,
Wander like souls unshrived :
And stalwart men of dauntless mien,
Of iron nerve and limb,
For something vague and dim,
By flaming cherubim !
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH, Mary Jane Fletcher, the Authoress of " Arria," is better known as Miss Jewsbury—she died in India, shortly after her marriage wit the Rev. Mr. Fletcher, a Missionary.
“It is not painful, Pætus."
Nor yet her sex above;
And bright with woman's love ;-
In soul and strength subdued;
Fonder than when she viewed
They tore him from his home ;-she rose
A midnight sea to brave;
Were fiercer than the wave;
A prisoner in a dungeon drear,
She loved, as Roman matrons should,
Her hero's spotless name;
Flow on the field of fame;
She bent a suppliant knee,
Die, freeman 'mid the free.
It is not painful, Pætus-Ay!
Such words could Arria say,
Her life-blood ebb away.
Ages, since then, have swept along,
Arria is but a name ;
Still woman's soul the same;
A FAIRY SONG.
From the daisies' home,