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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 hides, revered alone;
On conscience' troubled glass—
Of the cold sepulchre—
Calls ' Immortality!'
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—
Bequiter, 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. Found in an old periodical, where it appeared anonymously.
When winter, with icy hands,
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 tack?
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 pittance 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 eot, And earn in that far-off country
For ourselves a brighter lot.
No longer we'll wait and weep,
No longer we'll starve in bands; We have learnt of the thoughtful swallow, On the wings of hope to follow,
To follow to southern lands.
Who fears a sheeted spectre
Or a warrior-lone, half-steel, half bone,
The purblind nurse, the infant heir
Not from without, but from within
Come spectres to appal— The heart alone is the haunted tower,
And the goblin-trodden hall, Where shadows of the long ago
Upon the present fall.
There, youthful feelings from the death
Of youth itself revived, And buried hopes, and wasted thoughts
In memory's charnel hived. Starting, unsummon'd, into life,
Wander like souls unshrived:
!. 2 B
And stalwart men of dauntless mien,
Knowing of fear but as a name
Pause at its portal, as 'twere watch'd
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, Ptctus,"
Heb form—it is not of the sky,
Nor yet her sex above;
And bright with woman's love ;—
Her lord is fetter'd by her side,
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 brought to him his own bright brand,
She bent a suppliant knee,
Die, freeman 'mid the free.
It is not painful, Paetus—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 alder bushes,