VENUS WELCOMED BY THE SEASONS TO THE SHORES OF CYPRUS.

The

We now lay before our readers a very extraordinary poem extracted from the Dublin University Magazine. It is one of a series which have been contributed to that periodical by Miss M. A. BROWNE, under the original and happy title of Sketches from the Antique. poetess has caught the very spirit of the classical ages, and in the foilowing has drawn a most beautiful picture of a most charming dream in the mythology of the ancients Few would suppose that this poem was the production of a female pen; it would certainly confer honour on any poet, living or dead, as all our readers will agree when they have perused it with the attention it deserves.

It is the sunset hour, and the far-off waves are roll'd, Glowing beneath the western sky, a flood of quivering gold, And gazing on that radiant scene there stands a group of four

Sisters, although they seldom meet upon the Cyprian shore. But they look not for the setting sun, though glorious be the sight,

They watch not for the first faint star, the herald of thenight;
They wait not for a distant bark, a richly laden prize,
Nor for a warrior fleet to bring the news of victories;
Yet o'er the glittering watery waste they strain the lengthen'd

gaze,

While on the eastern hills behind falls evening's purple haze.

Fair are the sisters—yet unlike—the youngest stands the

first,

Her yellow tresses wreath'd with flowers in wood and dingle

nursed;

And the hand that shades her wild blue eye is delicate and small,

And the voice that questions and replies is gay and musical;
Taller and fuller is the form of the maiden by her side,
And her eyes have that deep azure to the noonday heavens

allied:

And her chestnut hair is braided up with roses full and red, And o'er her smooth rich dimpled cheek richly the blushes spread;

And her voice is deeper, yet as soft-less merry, but as sweet As her's who hath the glistening eyes and lightly flying

feet.

The third hath matron beauty in her broad and open brow, Her eyes are calm and full of thought, her voice distinct but

low;

Her head is crown'd with vine leaves wreath'd with ears of

ripening corn,

And fill'd with grapes, and nuts, and wheat, she holds a golden horn:

Beyond her stands the eldest, with a forehead high and pale,
Her tresses gather'd up and hid beneath a snowy veil;
But her voice is clear and cheerful, and her smile is glad
and bright,

And her dark eyes sparkle like the stars upon a frosty night:
Who are the watchers, and for whom wait they together

there?

These are the Seasons, and they wait the Queen of all things fair.

Long hath she linger'd, but at length, upon the darkening

waste

Surely a tiny moving skiff may distantly be traced;
Or is it but an ocean bird a moment floating there,
Or a larger wave just curling up to melt into the air?
No, nearer still it glideth on the billows' gentle swell,
A bark, a native of the seas, a curving silvery shell:
It bears one shadowy form alone, she standeth by the prow,
Her graceful outline clearly seen crossing the sunset's glow;
And now she nears the shore and lifts her head in wondering

maze,

While her peerless beauty bids the four in silent rapture gaze.

Her form, how light, how graceful, yet how rounded in its

mould!

And the sparkling spray hangs 'midst her hair, like diamonds dropp'd in gold;

And for her face! ah, who may speak its perfect loveliness!
Clad in that living light of love no image may express:
No poet may transfuse such light into his sweetest lay,
No painter give it permanence amidst his work to stay:
'Tis Venus whom the Seasons haste with welcome warm to

greet,

And marvel their own separate charms combined in her to

meet:

For her smile hath all the light of spring, her cheek the summer's rose,

Her form hath autumn's mellow'd grace, her bosom winter's snows!

LOVE.

A passage in BAILEY'S Festus.

I WISH we had a little world to ourselves,
With none but we two in it.

Festus.

And if God

Gave us a star, what could we do with it
But what we could without it? Wish it not!

Clara. I'll not wish then for stars: but I could love Some peaceful spot where we might dwell unknown, Where home-born joys might nestle round our hearts As swallows round our roofs, and blend their sweets Like dewy-tangled flow'rets in one bed.

Festus. The sweetest joy, the wildest woe, is love;
The taint of earth, the odour of the skies
Is in it. Would that I were aught but man!
The death of brutes, the immortality

Of fiend or angel better seems than all

The doubtful prospects of our painted dust.
And all morality can teach is-bear!

And all religion can inspire is-hope!

BIRDS.

One of the Poems of SHAKSPEARE.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone:

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn

And there

sung

the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity:

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, by and by:

That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shewn,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain
None take pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead :
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Whilst as fickle fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend,

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;

But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call:
And with such like flattering,
"Pity but he were a king."
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need,

If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
A graceful Sonnet by LEIGH HUNT.

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When e'en the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire; and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,-

In doors and out, summer and winter,-mirth.

HYMN TO AIR

From Putnam's Monthly Magazine. We suspect it to be from the pen of BRYANT, who is one of the contributors. It is certainly in his inanner and worthy of his genius.

THE mightiest thou among the powers of earth,
The viewless agent of the unseen God,

What immemorial era saw thy birth?

What pathless fields of new creation trod
Thy noiseless feet? Where was thy dwelling-place
In the blind realm of chaos, ere the word
Of sovereign order by the stars was heard,
Or the young planet knew her Maker's face?
No wrecks are hid in thine unfathom'd sea;
Thy crystal tablets no inscription bear;
The awful Infinite is shrined in thee,

Immeasurable Air!