Drooping and dying the rose seem'd

Forth the maiden goes

Paler and paler her cheek grew,

Redder and redder the rose!
It was the early morning-

The rose had gained its prime-
A voice like the voice of the maiden,
Was heard in the village chime.

Still, from the early morning,
Went on a heavy work;

Deeply the green earth was wounded,
In the shadow of the kirk,

Then there was no more morning,

Oh! then my grief was strong-
The rose deck'd the grave of the maiden
Who had nourish'd it so long.

SPRING.

This beautiful description of spring is from a poem entitled the Ballad of Babe Christabel, lately published by GERALD MASSEY, another poet of the people.

WHEN Danäe earth bares all her charms,

And gives the God her perfect flower,
Who, in the sunshine's golden shower,

Leaps warm into her amorous arms!

When buds are bursting on the brier,
And all the kindled greenery glows,
And life hath richest overflows,

And morning fields are fringed with fire:

When young maids feel love stir i' the blood,
And wanton with the kissing leaves

And branches, and the quick sap heaves,

And dances to a ripen'd flood;

Till, blown to its hidden heart with sighs,

Love's red rose burns i' the cheek so dear,
And, as sea-jewels upward peer,

Love-thoughts melt through their swimming eyes:

When Beauty walks in bravest dress,

And, fed with April's mellow showers,

The earth laughs out with sweet May flowers, That flush for very happiness :

And Spider-Puck such wonder weaves

O' nights, and nooks of greening gloom
Are rich with violets that bloom

In the cool dark of dewy leaves:

When rose-buds drink the fiery wine

Of dawn with crimson stains i' the mouth,
All thirstily as yearning youth

From Love's hand drinks the draught divine;

And honey'd plots are drowsed with bees:
And larks rain music by the shower,
While singing, singing by the hour,

Song like a spirit sits i' the trees!

When fainting hearts forget their fears,
And in the poorest life's salt cup

Some rare wine runs, and Hope builds up

Her rainbow over Memory's tear!

It fell upon a merry May morn,

I' the perfect prime of that sweet time When daisies whiten, woodbines climb,The dear Babe Christabel was born.

AUTUMNAL SONNET.

By W. ALLINGHAM.

Now autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, o'er upland solitudes,

Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise

The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies
Poor earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

A LOVELY LADY.

The works of GEORGE WITHER are so scarce and dear that we do not apologize for introducing a passage from the Mistress of Philarete, (highly commended by Charles Lamb as of pre-eminent merit), to the readers of Beautiful Poetry. A lover, after rapturous commendations of his mistress, expresses surprise that all others do not see her in the same light that he does.

SOMETIME I do admire

All men burn, not with desire;
Nay, I muse her servants are not
Pleading love; but O! they dare not.
And I therefore wonder, why
They do not grow sick and die.
Sure they would do so, but that,
By the ordinance of fate,
There is some concealed thing,
So each gazer limiting,

He can see no more of merit,
Than beseems his worth and spirit.
For in her a grace there shines,
That o'er-daring thoughts confines,
Making worthless men despair
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the destinies agree,

Some good judgments blind should be,
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare beauties in her growing.
Reason doth as much imply:

For, if every judging eye,

Which beholdeth her, should there
Find what excellences are,
All, o'ercome by those perfections
Would be captive to affections.
So, in happiness unblest,

She for lovers should not rest.

Brilliants.

REMEMBRANCE.

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
Awes not so deeply in its morning hour,
As when the shades of time serenely fall
On every broken arch and ivied wall;
The tender images we love to trace,
Steal from each year a melancholy grace!
And as the sparks of social love expand,
As the heart opens in a foreign land,

And with a brother's warmth,, a brother's smile
The stranger greets each native of his isle;
So scenes of life, when present and confest,
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast:
Yet not an image, when remotely view'd,
However trivial and however rude,

But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh,
With every claim of close affinity.

SERVICES.

Small service is true service while it lasts;
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one;
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.

ROGERS.

WORDSWORTH.

POWER OF MIND.

It wants but effort of the active mind

To people Earth and Heaven with ministering sprites. The young Aurora with her rosy cheeks

Sits as of yore at portals of the

morn,

And thoughtful Hesper with her starry eyes

Looks as in olden time from day to night,
And makes both beautiful.

CURSES.

MACKAY.

Curse not! Ill doing is a deeper curse
Than tongue can utter. Evil will rebound,
And each ungentle thought, and word, and deed,
Fly back, and quiver in the conscious breast.

PATRICK SCOTT.

LOVE,

Oft when I look, I may descry
A little face peep through that eye;
Sure that's the boy, who wisely chose
His throne among such beams as those,
Which, if his quiver chance to fall,
May serve for darts to kill withal.

THOMAS CAREW. 1610.

THE WARRIOR.

A grim old king

Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day;
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,

Ring'd by his weeping lords. His left hand held
His white steed, to the belly splash'd with blood,
That seem'd to mourn him with its drooping head,
His right, his broken brand; and in his ear
His old victorious banners flap the winds.
He called his faithful herald to his side,-

"Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile, The warrior with a stab let out his soul,

Which fled and shriek'd through all the other world, "Ye dead! My master comes!" And there was pause Till the great shade should enter.

DOMESTIC PEACE.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

Tell me, on what holy ground
May domestic peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies
From the pomp of sceptred state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
Listening to the Sabbath bells.
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

COLERIDGE.