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Could but our tempers move like this machine,
Not urged by passion nor delay'd by spleen :
And true to nature's regulating power,
By virtuous acts distinguish every hour :
Then health and joy would follow as they ought,
The laws of motion, and the laws of thought :
Sweet health to pass the present moments o'er,
And everlasting joy when time shall be no more.

There is a fountain in the forest call'd
The Fountain of the Fairies. When a child,
With most delightful wonder, I have heard
Tales of the elfin tribe, that on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
It ever has been deem'd their fav'rite tree.
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask them in the sunshine. Many a time
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round
On the green sward beneath its boughs bewrays
Their nightly dance, and bid him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
And made it holy: and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approach'd
Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure
That fill'd me by that solitary spring
Ceased not in riper years; and now it woke
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.



The sorrows which the soul endures,
Not self-inflicted, are but hooded joys,
That when she touches the white strand of heaven,
They cluster round her and slip off their robes,
And laugh out angels in the world of light.


A SONG. The following song hy Mr. SILLERY is extremely elegant, and worthy of a place in a collection of poetry. It is what it professes to be, and it aims at nothing more, and that is a very great merit.

She died in beauty !-like a rose

Blown from its parent stem :
She died in beauty!-like a pearl

Dropp'd from some diadem.
She died in beauty !-- like a lay

Along a moonlit lake:
She died in beauty !-like the song

Of birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty !-like the snow

On flowers dissolved away:
She died in beauty !-like a star

Lost on the brow of day.
She lives in glory!-like Night's gems

Set round the silver moon!
She lives in glory!- like the sun

Amid the blue of June !

THE GIPSY'S MALISON. A very strange sonnet by CHARLES LAMB, published in Blackwood's Magazine. In his letters he speaks of it as “curiously and perversely elaborate." It is certainly a curiosity in its way. But it contains some very fine poetry. Suck, baby suck! mother's love grows by giving,

Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living

Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. Kiss, baby kiss; mother's lips shine by kisses,

Choke the warm blood that else would fell in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses

Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. Hang, baby hang! mother's love loves such forces,

Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses

Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging.
So sang a withered beldam energetical,
And bang’d the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

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A ROUNDEL FOB MAY. In a volume of CALDER CAMPBELL'S Poems we have found a very lively lyric which cannot fail to please the reader. Some faults it has, but then it has 110 pretensions which it does not sustain; it professes to be nothing beyond a sprightly sketch.

May dew! May dew!—The fairies brew
Their wizard wine of the fresh May dew;
And the drops, with their breaths have breathed upon,
Ere lipped by the kiss of the sultry sun,
Cosmetic spell and influence own
To fix bright beauty on its throne!
Oh! the ladye looks well in her simple vest,
When the girdle of gold clips her heaving breast, -
When the costly gems of her proud tiar
Sparkle, more bright than the brightest star,
And the burnished gloss of her raven hair
Gleams in the blaze of the revel there;
But better she looks, in her morning attire,
When she fares forth to list to the woodland quire,
Better she looks, to the lover's view,

Gathering dew!
May dew! May dew !—The fairies strew
A philter powder over you,
That lends to the cheek a richer glow,
And adds a grace to the living snow,-
-The Baron asks for his favourite child,
“Where hath she sped in her frolic wild ?
The garden hath roses, hath she gone there,
To cull a braid for her radiant hair?-
The orchard hath fruits, just ripening red,
Hath she stolen there from her downy bed ?
Her minion fawn hath fled to the wood,
Where the foe of my house and the bane of my blood,
Hath built him a hunting bower so gay,-
Forefend that my child should have gone that way ?"
“Oh, no!” cried a page, “'tis the month of May,
And down in the mead where the urchins play,
She busies herself, while the day is new,

Gathering dew."
May dew! May dew!-A moon for you,
And a moon for a lover's task will do !-

And every morn of the month of May,
Gathering dew by the early day,
Was seen the lady Christabel,
Tended by one who loved her well!
The Baron was lame, so he could not walk-
The Lady was loved, as none would talk-
The Baron was blind, and he could not tell
That the gallant Knight with Christabel
Was the foe of his house, and the bane of his blood;
And the wily page that near him stood,
Said, aye and anon, with a laughing mien,
6 'Tis old nurse Alice in coif of green,
Who walks with our Lady, faithful and true,

Gathering dew!"

May dew! May dew!-A month for you,
And a month for the lover to win and to woo!
—'Tis a morn of June, and the beldam nurse
Is turned to a stalwart Knight and horse!
And the coif of green is a helmet bright, -
And the Lady hath mounted her palfrey white;
And long ere the Baron his page had asked
For his morning posset, the Abbot was task'd
To bind the knot that binds for life,
And make fair Christabel a wife !
-Oh! ye fathers old, whose eyes are dim,
Whom age hath struck in lithe and limb,
Beware of love's own month of May,
Of a wily page and a beldam grey;
And let not your daughters seek the wood
Where the fairies philter hath been strewed ;
For love may be seen, tho' not by you,

Gathering dew!

THE GIPSY BEGGAR. In all ages and countries the parental affections have afforded the happiest themes for poetry. In a volume by a Mr. BURBIDGE we have noticed one which to us appears worthy of a place in any selection of poetry. The tale is told with admirable simplicity, aud

the outburst of natural feeling, betraying the beggar's artifice, is one of those truthful pictures that proclaim man's common nature and prove that “ we have all of us one human heart.”

They gave him nought; he turn'd away

With such a sufferance as is bred
From careless usage day by day;
'Twas wisdom, in a humble way,

Both of the heart and head.

I follow'd on that lordly train

Their laugh yet rang upon the ear-
Just round an elbow of the lane ;
And me the gipsy asked again

For alms, when I drew near.

For alms: he had no home, he said,

And (changed the beggar's tale before)
No wife, no children; all were dead;
He was alone on earth, he said,

And stricken with a sore.

'Twas cunningly devised to move

My heart, however, he might guess;
And more his seeming want of love
That tender depths of pity clove,

Than deeper shared distress.
His was an ancient Roman's face,

So statue-like in shape, and yet
So viperous in eye, the grace
Of that calm outline keen gave place

To its continual fret.
It glanced ten times while yet he spoke,

Ten separate darts it made or more,
On me-upon his tatter'd cloak-
Upon an imp, that wildly broke

From out a hovel-door.

I look'd upon the boy and him,

'Twas clear to me they were akin ;
Only the younger was less grim
To see, his cheek more dewy-dim,

And of a finer skin.

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