THE LAND OF DREAMS.

By Professor WILSON, the CHRISTOPHER NORTH of Blackwood's Magazine.

O DREADFUL is the land of dreams,

When all that world a chaos seems
Of thoughts so fix'd before!

When heaven's own face is tinged with blood,

And friends cross o'er our solitude,

Now friends of ours no more!

Or, dearer to our hearts than ever,

Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour,
Their pale and palsied hands

To clasp us, phantoms, as we go
Along the void, like drifting snow,
To far-off nameless lands!

Yet all the while, we know not why
Nor where those dismal regions lie,
Half hoping that a curse so deep
And wild can only be in sleep,
And that some overpowering scream
Will break the fetters of the dream,
And let us back to waking life,

Fill'd though it be with care and strife;

Since there at least the wretch can know

The meanings on the face of woe,
Assured that no mock shower is shed
Of tears upon the real dead;

Or that his bliss, indeed is bliss,

When bending o'er the deathlike cheek
Of one who scarcely seems alive,
At every cold but breathing kiss,
He hears a saving angel speak—
Thy love will yet revive!

YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW.

By CHARLES SWAIN, one of our living poets.
"As the sun now glows on earth,
Ages have beheld it glow;
As the flowers now spring to birth,
Sprang they thousand years ago!

So each day must pass away,
Bringing smiles or sending sorrow ;-
As the world was yesterday
So 'twill be to-morrow.

Wherefore should we own our pain,
Since the pain, like all things, goeth?
Where's the wisdom to complain,
Since our feeling no one knoweth ?
Hearts may bloom, yet show no flowers;
Eyes may mourn, yet hide their sorrow;
As the world went yesterday

So 'twill go to-morrow.

Life is like the wind that blows

When the clouds of morn are breaking;
Life is like the stream that flows-
Something leaving-something taking!
Better cherish what we may,

Than recal the past with sorrow;
As the world roll'd yesterday
So 'twill roll to-morrow.

LINGER NOT LONG.

This little poem appeared anonymously for the first time in one of the American periodicals. It has been frequently reprinted in England. LINGER not long!-Home is not home without thee, Its dearest tokens only make me mourn :Oh! let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return.—

Linger not long!

Linger not long!-Though crowds should woo thy staying,
Bethink thee-can the mirth of friends, though dear,
Compensate for the grief thy long delaying

Costs the poor heart that sighs to have thee here?
Linger not long!

Linger not long!-How shall I watch thy coming,
As evening's shadows stretch o'er moor and fell;
When the wild bee hath ceased her weary humming,
And silence hangs on all things like a spell.-
Linger not long!

How shall I watch for thee when fears grow stronger,
As night grows dark and darker on the hill!
How shall I weep when I can watch no longer-
Oh, art thou absent, art thou absent still?

Linger not long!

Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me
Gazeth through tears that make its splendour dull ;
For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me,
My cup of happiness is all too full !—

Linger not long!

Haste-haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling,
Haste as a bird unto its peaceful nest!

Haste as a skiff when tempests wild are swelling
Flies to its haven of securest rest!-

Linger not long!

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

By ROBERT SOUTHEY. It points a wholesome moral.

Ir was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found.

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;'

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,

"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
thousand men,'
" said he,

For

many
“Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be,

At every famous victory.

66

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.

"And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

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Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory!"

THE KINGS OF THE SOIL.

Another of the poems of EDWIN HENRY BURRINGTON, already introduced to the reader. We should state, by the by, that the poem we then extracted attracted the notice of a French author, who was so pleased with it that he translated it into his own language, and it has been widely circulated and as much admired in France as it was in England.

BLACK sin may nestle below a crest,

And crime below a crown;

As good hearts beat 'neath a fustian vest,
As under a silken gown.

Shall tales be told of the chiefs who sold
Their sinews to crush and kill,

And never a word be sung or heard
Of the men who reap and till?
I bow in thanks to the sturdy throng
Who greet the young Morn with toil;
And the burden I give my earnest song
Shall be this-The Kings of the Soil!
Then sing for the Kings who have no crown
But the blue sky o'er their head :-
Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they,
To withhold or to offer bread!

Proud ships may hold both silver and gold,
The wealth of a distant strand;

But ships would rot, and be valued not,
Were there none to till the land.

The wildest heath, and the wildest brake,

Are rich as the richest fleet,

For they gladden the wild birds when they wake,
And give them food to eat.