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element of poesy itself. The taste of a gay and jovial Anacreon, is not likely to find the same delight in the solemn and serious compositions of a Milton, a Danté, or a Byron, that he would in those of a Moore : but it does not surely follow, that he is less a judge of poetry than the critic who does not possess the same delicacy of tact in any class of the art. We do not, however, wish to enter into a controversy on the subject, but merely to give a caveat against the principle assumed by our respected correspondent.–C. N.]
The east wind has whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry o'er Summer's domain ;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of grey,
Look'd sullenly down on the plain.
The butterfly folded her wings as if dead,
Or awaked e'er the full destined time:
Every flower shrunk inward, or hung down its head
Like a young heart, grief struck in its prime.
I too shrunk and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth,
The cold heavens, with comfortless looks ;
And I listen’d in vain, for the summer bird's mirth,
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks.
But, lo! while I listen’d, down heavily dropt
A few tears, from a low-sailing cloud :
Large and slow they descended; then thicken'd—then stopt –
Then pour’d down abundant and loud.
Oh, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound,
That succeeded that soft gracious rain !
With laughter and singing the vallies rang round,
And the little hills shouted again.
The wind sunk away, like a sleeping child's breath,
The pavilion of clouds was unfurl'd ;
And the sun, like a spirit, triumphant o'er death,
Smiled out on this beautiful world !
On this beautiful world !--such a change had been wrought
By those few blessed drops.-Oh! the same
On some cold stony heart might be work’d too (methought,)
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.
If a few virtuous tears by the merciful shed
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain
That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.
And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven,
Might chase the dark clouds of despair,
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven,
Might gush out, and soften all there.
Oh! to work such a change by God's grace to recal
A poor soul from the death-sleep-to this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss ?
A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILI).
Bring me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair !
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desart heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.
Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!
Oh what upon this earth doth prove
So stedfast as a mother's love!
Oh what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace, to a mother's grief !
No more, my baby, shalt thou lie
With drowsy smile, and half shut eye,
upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!
The grave must be thy cradle now;
The wild-flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart, all full of thee,
In widow'd solitude shall be.
No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within ;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.
Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.
Methought, when years had rollid away,
That thou wouldst be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see
The boy—the youth-the man in thee !
But thou hast past! for ever gone
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!
Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.
The earliest snow-drop there shall spring,
And lark delight to fold his wing,
And roses pale, and lilies fair,
With perfume load the summer air !
Adieu, my babe! if life were long,
This would be even a heavier song,
But years like phantoms quickly pass,
Then look to us from Memory's glass.
Soon on Death's couch shall I recline ;
Soon shall my head be laid with thine;
And sunder’d spirits meet above,
To live for evermore in love!
Part II. Dear North,
lyrics, but they want the nerve and Experience teaches fo—: no, that condensation of song-writing. Neverset of the proverb will not do; expe- theless, I have sent another half dozen, rience makes a wise man. You must according to your desire; though you be convinced now, that song-writing will find them except one or two, is not my forte. As to the first six perhaps-in exactly the same predica“ Morsels of Melody,”- you observe ment. I did not even pretend to call them
Your sincere Friend, songs, I am exactly of your opinion,
А as who is not, when you speak in sincerity? They may do as sentimental Sept. 1st.
'Twas when the summer skies were blue, and when the leaf was green,
When beauteous birds and blossoms on every bough were seen,
That I parted with my gallant love, as to the wars he went;
May dreams of home aye hover round the pillow of his tent.
Though pleasantly the sun illumes the woodland walks and bowers,
And sweetly sounds the stream, amid its broider'd banks of flowers;
Though the chesnut boughs be shady, and the orchard trees be fair,
I only think on days, when with my love I wander'd there.
I care not now, at noon of night, around the park to stray,
But sit and gaze upon the moon, that wends its silent way,
And I think, as on its silver orb I fix my eager sight,
Perhaps my William's eyes have there been also fix'd to-night.
Oh! soon be war's red standard furl’d, for silently by day
I sit and muse on pleasures past, and pine myself away;
And only through the dreams of night for me are pleasures shown,
For I wake, and sigh at morning light, to find myself alone.
may I hope within thy breast, that now and then may start,
'Mid noisy camps, a pensive thought, that brings thee to my heart;
When round the board, at eventide, the wine-cup circles free,
Be joyous, and give smiles to all, but keep one sigh for me!
How happily these scenes shall look, that now deserted be,
How glad shall be the home, that now is sad, deprived of thee !
Till fame with glory crown thee, and thy course be hither bent,
May dreams of home aye hover round the pillow of thy tent!
COME, MARY, TO ME!
The sun is sinking brightly
Beyond the glowing seas ;
The birds are singing lightly
From yonder clump of trees;
The labourer hath hied him home,
The ploughboy left the lea ; Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam
Come, Mary, to me!
The beds of flowering clover
Exhale a perfume sweet ;
The evening breeze sighs over
The shaded hawthorn seat;
All day I've wish'd this hour to come,
I've thought of meeting thee.
Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam,—
Come, Mary, to me!
Oh, fairest! and oh, dearest !
My life I would not give,
When to thee I am nearest,
For such as nobles live;
I envy none, yet pity some,
Who true love never see.
Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam,
Come, Mary, to me!
Though, Betsy, another's thou art,
Who often hast clung to my side;
And, though 'mid my musings I start,
That another now calls thee his bride ;
Though the love that between us did bloom,
On thy side is wither'd and cold;
Still it breathes to my heart in its gloom,
As fragrant and fresh as of old !
Ah, me! that the visions of youth
Like rainbows all melt and decay !
That the vows and the pledges of truth,
Should be things that can bind but a day!
That the heart, like the seasons, can turn,
And from sunshine be chill'd into frost ;
And the flame, which so brightly could burn,
In an instant be vanish'd and lost!
Then, Betsy, for ever farewell !
Every thought I have cherish'd for thee,
In the depth of my bosom shall dwell,
Like a treasure deep hid in the sea. Through the scenes, where so often we roved,
'Twill sooth me all lonely to stray ; Every flower, every spot that was loved,
Shall be hallow't when thou art away!
Farewell ! oh, be happy, be blest,
With him whom thy heart hath preferr’d;
May grief, in the home of thy rest,
Far off, be a sound never heard ;
And though dark, and despairing, and lone,
Must the thread of my destiny be,
To dream of the years that are gone,
Is sweeter than new loves to me!
THE EVENING INVITATION. Oh Ida! fáir Ida! the evening is sweet, The small birds sing forth from their leafy retreat, Peace broods o'er the hamlet, peace reigns on the hill; Nought is heard, save the river, that murmurs so still; 'Tis the time for the saint, or the lover to roam ; 'Tis the soft hour of feeling, oh come, my love, come !
In solitude ever my dreams are of thee,
And in cities thy likeness I never can see ;
As the rainbow comes after the tempest to say,
That the showers and the thunders have melted away,
So the thought of thy charms can a magic impart,
To scatter the sorrows that brood o'er my heart !
Oh Ida, my loved one, oh Ida, my sweet,
Could it be, I would pour out my soul at thy feet;
As the nightingale sits by the side of the rose,
Singing warmer and clearer the brighter it glows;
As the bee seeks the flower, that is fairest and best,
So my thoughts dwell on thee, where alone they are blest.
Oh come, my love, Ida! when thou art away
No pleasure is sweet, and no landscape is gay!
Though the flowers, and the waters, and the woods are so fair,
A something is wanting, if thou be not there;
The sunshine is rayless, the songsters are dumb,
When Ida I see not; oh come, my love, come!