Muse! these are themes well worth thy noting

Be grandeur and its pride forgotten,

Dosed, dead, stretched, mourned for, earthed, and rotten,
And all is o'er:

A torch burnt out, a star that's shotten,
To shine no more.

THE WEDDING WAKE.

BY GEORGE DARLEY, ESQ.

DEAD Beauty's eye is beamless all,
Its glance is dull as hail;

The snow that on her cheek might fall
Were nothing half so pale.

Her lip-O God! her sullen lip,

So brightly raised erewhile;

No sweet thought curls its hollowed tip,
Not even a marble smile!

See, maidens! see, to hide its charms,

Cross'd on her neck of pearl;

See how she lays her lily arms,

The chaste, the careful girl!

Why stand ye tearless by my side?
Where is sweet Pity gone?—
Pity o'erwept herself and died

The day her life was done.

Like a dark stream, her raven hair
Wanders adown her brow;
Look how the weetless, reckless air
Moves its dead tresses now!

Where is her unworn bridal trim?-
Hark! who is he that sighs?

Stand forth, slight Boy!—let none but him
Close up her pallid eyes.

I smile to see him plight his truth
In her unlistening ear;

Stain not, O deeply bending Youth!
Her sweet cheek with a tear.

Pillow her in her bridal tire,
Her sandals at her feet;
No other dress doth she require,
Than a cold windingsheet.

Coffin her up, and on the pall
Lay one white virgin plume;

As lone, as still, as spotless all,
She shall lie in the tomb,

We'll carry her o'er the churchyard green,

Down by the willow trees;

We'll bury her by herself, between

Two sister cypresses.

Flowers of the sweetest, saddest hue
Shall deck her lowly bed;
Rosemary at her feet we'll strew,
And violets at her head.

The pale rose, the dim azure bell,
And that lamenting flower,
With Ai! Ai! its eternal knell,
Shall ever-bloom her bower,

Her cypress bower; whose shade beneath, Passionless, she shall lie:

To rest so calm, so sweet in death, 'Twere no great ill to die!

Ye four fair Maids, the fairest ye,

Be

ye

the flower strewers!

Ye four bright Youths, the bearers be,

Ye were her fondest wooers!

To church! to church! ungallant Youth,
Carry your willing bride!

So pale he looks, 'twere well, in sooth,
He should lie by her side!

The bed is laid, the toll is done,

The ready priest doth stand;

Come, let the flowers be strown! be strown!
Strike up, ye bridal band!

Forbear, forbear that cruel jest;

Be this the funeral song:
Farewell, the loveliest and the best
That ever died so young!

ODE TO AUTUMN.

BY JOHN CLARE.

SYREN! of sullen woods and fading hues,
Yet haply not incapable of joy,-

Sweet Autumn, I thee hail!

With welcome all unfeigned;

And oft, as Morning from her lattice peeps,
To beckon up the Sun! I'll seek, with thee,
To drink the dewy breath

Of fields left fragrant then.

To solitudes, where no frequented path

But what thine own foot makes, betrays thine home,

Stealing obtrusive there,

To meditate thine end,

By overshadow'd ponds, in woody nooks,

With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,
That woo the winds to play,

And with them dance for joy.

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,
Where waterlilies spread their glossy leaves,
On which the dragon fly

Yet battens in the sun;

Where leans the moping willow half way o'er,
On which the shepherd crawls astride, to throw
His angle clear of weeds,

That float the water's brim.

Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,
Where, step by step, the patient shepherd boy
Hath cut rude flights of stairs,

To climb their steepy sides;

Then, tracking at their feet, grown hoarse with noise,
The moaning brook, that ekes its weary speed,
And struggles through the weeds

With faint and sullen crawl.

These haunts, long favour'd, but the more so now,
With thee thus wandering, moralizing on;
Stealing glad thoughts from grief,

And happy though I sigh!

Sweet vision! with the wild dishevell'd hair,

And raiment shadowy with each wind's embrace,

Fain would I win thine harp

To one accordant theme.