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When the delusion dies !" “Tremblest thou,” hiss'd the serpent-herd in scorn,

“Before the vain deceit ?
Made holy but by custom, stale and worn,
The phantom gods, of craft and folly born-

The sick world's solemn cheat ?
What is this future underneath the stone ?

But for the veil that bides, revered alone;
The giant shadow of our terror, thrown

On conscience' troubled glass
Life's lying likeness—in the dreary shroud

Of the cold sepulchrem
Embalm'd by Hope—Time's mummy—which the proud
Delirium, driv'ling through thy reason's cloud,

Calls Immortality!

Giv'st thou for hope (corruption proves its lie)

Sure joy that most delights us?
Six thousand years has death reign'd tranquilly ! -
Nor one corpse come to whisper those who die

What after death requites us!”
Along Time's shores, I saw the Seasons fly;

Nature herself, interr'd
Among her blooms, lay dead; to those who die

There came no corpse to whisper Hope! Still I
Clung to the Godlike word.

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!
“ For all my sons an equal love I know,

And equal each condition,"
Answer'd an unseen Genius—" See below,
Two flowers, for all who rightly seek them, blow-

The Hope and the Fruition.
He who has pluck'd the one, resign'd must see

The sister's forfeit bloom :
Let unbelief enjoy-Belief must be
All to the chooser ;-the world's history

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!"

Found in an old periodical, where it appeared anonymously.
When winter, with icy hands,

Binds river and field and hill,
When snow lies deep on the uplands,

And the north wind bloweth chill,
The sparrows hang on the roof,

The starlings starve in bands,
But the swallow spreads her happy wings,

And flies to the southern lands.

To the glorious southern lands,

The lands of kindly skies,
On the wings of courage and hope,

The thoughtful swallow flies.

When poverty comes, like winter,

Chilling hearts and staying bands,
Shall we, like the sparrow and starling,

Sit down in despairing bands?
Is it want of courage and hope

That for ever holds us back?
Let us learn of the swift-winged swallow,

And follow in her track.

For us there are kindlier climates,

Where await us homes and wealth,
And lands that ask our labours,

And breezes fraught with health:
Here we sleep in a noisome chamber, .

We tread the crowded way,
And scarcely with painful labour

Earn a pi:tance from day to day.

But there we should work with pleasure,

For the gain is sure and sweet,
We should tread the free green pasture

Instead of the crowded street;
We should sit 'neath our own fruit-tree,

And dwell in our own dear cot,
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

Up the hall stairs gliding slow?
Or a warrior-lone, half-steel, half bone,

In the tower that rocketh so?
The purblind nurse, the infant heir

But not a man, I trow.

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 :

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And stalwart men of dauntless mien,

Of iron nerve and limb,
Knowing of fear but as a name

For something vague and dim,
Pause at its portal, as 'twere watch'd

By flaming cherubim !


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."
Her form it is not of the sky,

Nor yet her sex above;
Her eye-it is a woman's eye,

And bright with woman's love ;-
Nor look, nor tone revealeth aught,
Save woman's quietness of thought :
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might.

Her lord is fetter'd by her side,

In soul and strength subdued ;
Yet looks she on him with a pride

Fonder than when she viewed
His mail'd form in the brightest hour
Of victory, applause, and power !
When fortune beam'd upon his brow,
She loved not as she loveth now.

They tore him from his home ;-she rose

A midnight sea to brave;
She stood beside himn when his foes

Were fiercer than the wave;
And now she is beside him here,

A prisoner in a dungeon drear,
Still calm as when before she strove ;
Still strong in woman's strength-her love.

She loved, as Roman matrons should,

Her hero's spotless name;
She would have calmly seen his blood

Flow on the field of fame;
But could not bear to have bim die,
The sport of each plebeian eye;
To see his stately neck bow'd low,
Beneath the headsman's dastard blow.
She brought to him his own bright brand,

She bent a suppliant knee,
And bade him, by his own right hand,

Die, freeman 'mid the free.
In vain--the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould ;-
Then rose the wife and woman high,
And died-to teach him how to die !

It is not painful, Pætus—Ay!

Such words could Arria say,
And view with an unaltered eye,

Her life-blood ebb away.
Professor of a purer creed,
Nor scorn, nor yet condemn the deed,
Which proved-unaided from above-
The deep reality of love.

Ages, since then, have swept along,

Arria is but a name;
Yet still is woman's love as strong,

Still woman's soul the same;
Still soothes the mother and the wife
Her cherish'd ones 'mid care and strife ;
It is not painful, Pætus-still
Is love's word in the hour of ill.

By Mary Ann BROWNE.
From the alder bushes,

From the daisies' home,

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