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The father's hand, without reproach or doubt, Clasps his-who caused them all such bitter fears;

The mother's arms encircle him about: That long dark course of alienated years, Mark'd only by a burst of reconciling tears !


These lines were written by the classical and poetical Lord MORPETH, now Earl of CARLISLE, in the Guide Book, at the Falls. They are entitled to preservation in a more permanent place of abode. THERE's nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall, Thou may'st not to the fancy's sense recalThe thunder-riven cloud, the lightning's leap, The stirring of the chambers of the deep; Earth's emerald green, and many-tinted dyes, The fleecy whiteness of the upper skies The tread of armies thickening as they come, The boom of cannon and the beat of drum; The brow of beauty and the form of grace, The passion and the prowess of our race, The song of Homer in its loftiest hour, The unresisted sweep of Roman power, Britannia's trident on the azure sea, America's young shout of liberty ! Oh may the wars that madden in thy deeps There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps, And till the conflict of thy surges cease The Nations on thy bank repose in peace.

Another of the delicious songs from MOORE's Lalla Rookh.
FROM Chindara's warbling fount I come,

Call’d by that moonlight garland's spell;
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.

Where lutes in the air are heard about,

And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out

Is tuned, as it leaves the lips, to song!
For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,

Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway
The spirits of past delight obey;
Let but the powerful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears,

From soul to soul the wishes of love,
As a bird that wafts through genial airs

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;
When memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still on the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone--- yet moves with a breath.
And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars that wink and listen

While Heaven's eternal melodies roll!

Then hither I come, from my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in music's strain,
I swear by the breath of that moonlight wreath

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.


A remarkable fragment by SHELLEY, exhibiting his very peculiar and mystical train of thought, wealth of words, and delicate sense of rhythm and melody. It will be read with great interest, and cannot fail to be a'lmired by all lovers of true poetry.

SLEEP on! sleep on! forget thy pain;

My hand is on thy brow,
My spirit on thy brain,
My pity on thy heart, poor friend,

And from my fingers flow
The powers of life, and like a sign

Seal thee from thy hour of woe,
And brood on thee, but may not blend

With thine!

Sleep on! sleep on! I love thee not;

But when I think that he
Who made and makes my lot
As full of flowers as thine of weeds

Might have been lost like thee,
And that a hand, which was not mine,

Might then have chased his agony
As I another's—my heart bleeds

For thine!
Sleep! sleep! and with the slumber of

The dead and the unborn,
Forget thy life and woe;
Forget that thou must wake for ever,

Forget the world's dull scorn,
Forget lost health and the divine

Feelings that die in youth's brief morn,
And forget me, for I can never

Be thine!

Like a cloud big with a May shower,

My soul weeps healing rain
On thee, thou wither'd flower,
It breathes mute music on thy rest,

Its odour calms my brain ;

Its light within my gloomy breast

Speaks like a second youth again,
By mine thy being is to its deep fount



A translation from the German of UHLAND, by whom we know not, but it is extremely well executed. It appeared in the newspapers some ten or twelve years ago.

MANY a year is in its grave
Since I pass'd this restless wave,
And the evening fair as ever
Shines on ruin, rock and river.

Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried ;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Pass'd in battle and in storm.

So, where'er I turn mine eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Sadd’ning thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends that closed their course before me.

But what binds us friend to friend,
'Tis that soul with soul can blend :
Soul-fraught were those hours of yore,
Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, oh boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly,
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have cross'd with me.

* MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. One of Mary Howitt's delicious outpourings of overflowing love for Nature, and embodying the spirit in which she wrote in one of her many books about the country, and its manifold glories and delights. “I never bend in prayer without thanking God for having given us little children.”

DWELLERS by lake and hill !
Merry companions of the bird and bee!

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained steps and spirits free!

The sunshine and the flowers,
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade ;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd.

The grey and ancient peaks
Round which the silent clouds hung day and night;

And the low voice of water as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth-
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power ;

For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirit finds;

And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth,
Twining its flowers and shouting full of glee ;

And a pure mighty influence mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands
Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons ;

Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands
Were of the hills, like you, ye little ones !

Children of pleasant song
Are taught within the mountain solitudes;

For hoary regions to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

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