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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.
THE SONG OF MUSIC.
Call’d by that moonlight garland's spell;
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
Is tuned, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!
Mine is the charm whose mystic sway
From soul to soul the wishes of love,
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.
With the blissful tone that's still on the ear;
To a note more heavenly still that is near!
The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
When music has reach'd her inward soul,
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll!
Then hither I come, from my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in music's strain,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT.
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,
And from my fingers flow
Seal thee from thy hour of woe,
Sleep on! sleep on! I love thee not;
But when I think that he
Might have been lost like thee,
Might then have chased his agony
The dead and the unborn,
Forget the world's dull scorn,
Feelings that die in youth's brief morn,
Like a cloud big with a May shower,
My soul weeps healing rain
Its odour calms my brain ;
Its light within my gloomy breast
Speaks like a second youth again,
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
Then in this same boat beside
One on earth in silence wrought,
So, where'er I turn mine eye
But what binds us friend to friend,
Take, oh boatman, thrice thy fee,
* 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 !
Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
The sunshine and the flowers,
The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
The grey and ancient peaks
And the low voice of water as it makes,
These are your joys! Go forth-
For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
The voice of hidden rills
And awfully the everlasting hills
Ye sit upon the earth,
And a pure mighty influence mid your mirth,
Hence is it that the lands
Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands
Children of pleasant song
For hoary regions to your wilds belong,