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The snow-drifts, which have lain so long,
Haunting the hidden nooks,
Like guilty ghosts have slipp'd away,
Unseen, into the brooks.
The lazy wheel, that hung so dry
Above the idle stream,
Whirls wildly in the misty dark,
And through the miller's dream.
W. B. READ.
The stars are forth! The moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful !
I linger yet with nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man: and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering-upon such a night
I stood within the Colosseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome:
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries :
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old !
If ye are fair,
Mankind will crowd around you, thick as when
The full-faced moon sits silver in the sea,
The eager waves lift up their gleaming heads,
Each shouldering for her smile!
With roses musky breathed,
And drooping daffodilly,
And silver-leaved lily,
And ivy darkly wreath'd,
I wove a crown before her,
For her I love so dearly-
A garland for Leonora,
With a silken cord I bound it.
Leonora, laughing clearly
A light and thrilling laughter,
About her forehead wound it,
And loved me ever after.
The highest truths lie nearest to the heart,
God came to me as Truth-I saw him not :
He came to me as Love, and my heart broke :
And from its inmost depth there came a cry
My Father ! oh my Father! smile on me!
And the Great Father smiled.
J. STANYAN Bigg.
JOY AND GRIEF.
How many links of love there are,
Sweet beings of unequal mould,
And natures all dissimilar :
The vile dross clasps the precious gold,
The ever-beating waves embrace
The stolid rock's unmoving base:
And fresh-born ivy tendrils cling
To the grey ruin mouldering.
Around the darkest clouds will play
The summer lightning's brightest ray;
And on the peaks of mountain snow,
The warmest tints of sunset glow.
By the EARL OF EGREMONT to his wife.
BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow
And more that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn-
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds and violet beds.
Still to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the Graces' silken smiles ;
She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd orient pearls for teeth.
The cherry, dipt in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.
These were her infant spoils, a store
To which in time she added more.
At twelve she stole from Cypria's queen
Her air, and love-inspiring mien-
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.
Apollo's wit was next her prey;
The next, the beam that lights the day;
She sung-amazed the Syrens heard,
And to assert their claims appeared-
She play'd—the Muses from the hill
Wonder'd who thus had stolen their skill.
Great Jove approved her charms and art,
And t'other day she stole my heart.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy influence on the fair ;
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be my arms.
A CAVALIER'S SONG. From THORNBURY'S Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads. CARABINE slung, stirrup well hung, Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung; Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail, Struggles and swells in the hot July gale. vol. v.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout-
We are the gallants to put them to rout.
Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes,
And scare the prime ladies of puritan lords;
Our steel-caps shall blaze through the long summer days,
As we, galloping, sing our mad cavalier lays.
Then, banners advance! By the lilies of France,
We are the gallants to lead them a dance.
Ring the bells back, though the sexton look black,
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track.
"Murder and fire!" shout louder and higher;
Remember Edgehill and the red-dabbled mire,
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the whole nest till the roof-tree shall fall.
Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl,
October's the liquor for trooper and earl;
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup.
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.)
No, by my word, there never shook sword
Better than this in the clutch of a lord;
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun
As the veins of the brow of that loveliest one;
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,
Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye.
By CHARLES MACKAY. I've a guinea I can spend, I've a wife and I've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I've a cottage of my own, with the ivy overgrown, And a cottage with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door by my shady sycamore, Large at heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a glass in my arbour as you pass, And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
I love the song of birds, and the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence, and the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers, and the briar in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave, and a proud contented slave,
And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown.
I love a simple song that awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John
And I hate the constant whine of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate, if I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind, and I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
So if you like my ways, and the comfort of my days,
I can tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
I never scorn my health, nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John
I've parted with my pride, I take the sunny side,
For I've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep my conscience clear, I've a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.
By EBENEZER ELLIOTT.
What highest prize hath woman won
In science or in art?
What mightiest work by woman done,
Boasts city, field, or mart ?
" She hath no Raphael !" Painting saith ;
“No Newton!” Learning cries;
- Show us her steam-ship! her Macbeth !
Her thought-won victories.”