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She it was, dear, who in Greek story acted
Such tragic masques : who in the grape's disguise Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul distracted,
And sear'd old Homer's eyes : Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended,
O'er Falconer's bones the matted sea-weed spread : Chatterton poison'd, Otway starved, and blended
White with the early dead!
She too with many a smile thy sire has flatter'd,
Promising flowers, and fame, and guerdons rare; Till youth was past, and then, he found, she scatter'd
Her vows and wreaths in air. Shun then the Siren: spurn her laurell'd chalice,
Though the bright nectar dance above the brim : Lest she should seize thee in her mood of malice,
And tear thee, limb from limb. But to selecter influences, my beauty,
Pay thy young vows,-to Truth, that ne'er beguiles, Virtue, fix'd faith, and unpretending duty,
Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles.
Thy future tastes and fortunes I may trace,-
Enhancing every grace.
With a fond yearning o'er the leaves I look :
Closed is the starry book !
“AS I LAYE A THINKYNGE.” The last lines of Thomas INGOLDSBY, whose real name was BARHAM—the author of the famous Ingoldsby Legends.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
There came a noble Knyghte,
Free and gaye :
There seem'd a crimson'd plain,
A lovely mayde came bye,
And a vowe,
No more a youth was there,
“ That I was borne!”
There came a lovely childe,
On his sire ;
That joyous smile was gone,
With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
As to her nest;
“Follow, follow me away,
“HERE IS REST.”
But one dead lamb is there!
But bas one vacant chair!
And mournings for the dead;
Will not be comforted.
Not from the ground arise ;
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;
Amid these earthly damps
May be Heaven's distant lamps.
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.
But gone unto that school
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
She lives, whom we call dead.
In those bright realms of air;
Behold her grown more fair.
The bond which nature gives,
May reach her where she lives.
For when with raptures wild
She will not be a child :
Clothed with celestial grace ;
Shall we behold her face.
And anguish long suppress’d,
That cannot be at rest,
We may not wholly stay;
The grief that must have way.
THE MOTHER'S HEART.
There is many a mother among our readers, and there is not one of them whose heart will not respond to the beautiful lines of our most gifted poetess, Mrs. NORTON, on her three children. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ;
Nor thought that any love again might be
Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that lean'd to Heav'n;
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ;Norl eaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide
Through the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower, Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind !
Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
Did come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And many a mirtbful jest and mock reply, Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!
And thine was many a heart to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; The coaxing smile ;--the frequent soft caress ;
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming!