LA FRESCURA

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

Tis Summer-neath the brilt at sky
Of fair Castile or Italy.

The sighing breeze just stirs the bower.
Rich with the spoils of fruit and tie wer;
Above, the marble porch is gieaming;
Below, the sparkling fount is streading;
And circling woodiands stretch their shude
Oer limpid stream and lawry gare.

It is a lovely spot; and there
Are happy heart. its joys to share:
Yon group that der the akelet's bran

watch where tl swans in besary swine,

And, there, the sage released from toils,
;92 warrior won from battle breas,
indy in her mon c' arms,
anghing girl with ciaspi, AS
Around her trother's neck,—a
**40 dandles on 4” ganeing knee
The infant crow)g wild with gree

LA FRESCURA.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

'Tis Summer-'neath the brilliant sky Of fair Castile or Italy.

The sighing breeze just stirs the bower, Rich with the spoils of fruit and flower; Above, the marble porch is gleaming; Below, the sparkling fount is streaming; And circling woodlands stretch their shade O'er limpid stream and lawny glade.

It is a lovely spot; and there Are happy hearts its joys to share: Yon group that o'er the lakelet's brim Watch where the swans in beauty swim; And, there, the sage released from toils, The warrior won from battle broils, The lady in her matron charms, The laughing girl with clasping arms Around her brother's neck, and she Who dandles on her dancing knee The infant crowing wild with glee.

A graceful group—a joyous scene!
But turn we now from what hath been,
And follow far that gentle band

In exile from their native land,
'Midst wreck of those who dared proclaim
To injured nations Freedom's name.

It was their crime to hope too high
Of their fall'n country's destiny:
And villany was prompt and strong,
And England held her hand too long,
Till, quenched once more in blood and shame,
Expired fair Freedom's rising flame;

And now the remnant of her train
From Naples, Portugal and Spain,
The high of heart, the fair, the young,
Like sea-weed by the waters flung,
Upon our British shores are lying-
For famine in our land are dying!

God of our fathers! and shall we

The offspring of the brave and free-
Of men who freely poured their veins
To ransom us from servile chains-
Shall we in this their evil day
From these sad exiles turn away?
From their despair our faces hide,
Besotted with our selfish pride,

And shut our sordid hearts and hands,
When man implores and God commands?

Oh, no! the thought I will not brook
That gentle eyes, which here may look
On pictured scene or poet's lay,
Will turn in apathy away,

While thus the stranger, at our gate,
Sinks destitute and desolate!

No! though the train of pampered pride
Pass by "upon the other side,"

As did the Pharisee of old,

Yet there are hearts of better mould
High throbbing in Old England's breast-
Ten thousand hearts that will not rest
Till they have succoured the distressed-
To whom even this brief hurried strain
I know will not appeal in vain :
And foremost of that generous band
Are they, the ladies of our land,
Whose bounty, like the dew of heaven,
Though silently is freely given.

Enough-the blush-the starting tear Reveal the purpose nobly dear! And see! the Exile's languid eyes Are lightened up in glad surprise, As, wakening from despair's wild trance, Kind faces meet his wildered glance. -Enough!-here let the curtain fall: Hearts that can feel will picture all— All that my versé may not unfold Of meeting minds of generous mould.