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A boat at midnight sent alone

To drift upon the moonless sea,
A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
A wounded bird, that hath but one
Imperfect wing to soar upon,

Are like what I am, without thee!”

A PASTORAL PICTURE

Of Deucalion and Pyrrha in Thessaly--their loves, their union,

and their happiness.

(From The Flood of Thessaly,by Barry Cornwall.)

Ar last they wed: No voice of parent spoke
Ungentle words, which now too often mar
Life's first fair passion: then no gods of gold,
Usurping, swayed with bitter tyranny
That sad domain the heart. Love's rule was free,
(Ranging through boundless air and bappy heaven,
And earth,) when Pyrrha wed the Titan's son.
-The winds sang at their nuptial gentle tunes,
And roses opened, on whose crimson hearts
The colour of love is stamped ; and odours rare
Came steaming from the morn-awakening flowers,
Which then forgot to close: Thessalian pipes
Were heard in valleys, and from thickets green
The Sylvans peeped delighted, then drew back
And shouted through the glades: Wood nymphs lay then
Beside the banks of running rivers, glad
For once to hear the shepherd's simple song;
And many a pleasant strife that night was had
On oaten reed and pastoral instrument,
Beneath the mild eye of the quiet moon.

Joy to Pandora's child! Supreme delight
To the Titan's son !"-all shouted forth.

Joy!” and the words went through the far vales sounding,
And through the forests tall, and over hills
And dells, where slumberous melancholy streams
Awoke and gave an echo. In dark woods
The wild horse started frorn his midnight sleep,
And shook his mane and shrilly spoke algud.
The Nightingale lay silent in the leaves,
For joy was grief to her; the timorous sheep
Were silent; and the backward-glancing hare
Lay close, and scarce the wild deer stirred the fern.

On

great

ON THE GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY.

(Original Sonnet, by Henry Neele.)
“ Even to this day,
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings ev'ry thing that's fair.”

COLERIDGE, from Schiller.
Oh! ye divine creations, still the heart

Hoards worship for ye in its inmost core ;
And though clasp'd hands and bended knees impart

Their homage at your hallow'd sbrines no more,
Still from your brows undying splendours dart.

Immortal harps rang with your praise of yore,
And their sweet echo still survives. The light
That on your altars burns, has grown 'less bright,

But not less beautiful; and even now

It gilds life's sordid path, and shews us how
In this dull age, with pride and meanness fraught,

To steal out of the world's unwholesome fen
Into the silent sanctuaries of thought,
And hold high converse there with gods and godlike men.

THE PEACH.

(By James Edmeston.)
I was born on a day of blossomy Spring,
When the skylark first outspreads his wing,
When he highest can soar, and sweetest sing ;

Where the sun shines brightest,
Where the zephyr breathes lightest,
Where the butterflies play,

Where the honey-bees stray,
There I basked the summer long day;
And every morning, fresh and new,
I drank full draughts of the choicest dew;
And the summer rolled on full gay:

But the sun shone bright,
And the zephyr breathed light,
And I drank the dew,
So fresh, and so new,
To heighten my bloom,

To enrich my perfume,
And ripen me, favour me, Lady, for you!
Then here I lie tour humble slave,
And this is thu only boon I crave-

That you praise my perfume,

My flavour, my bloom,
When you lay me at last in my coral grave.

Р

1823.

To TO

(By James Edmeston.) My friend---thy couch is gory,

And wet with the marshy tide; But, bright with so much glory,

What wouldst thou have beside ? Though moor and desert bound thee,

And strangers tramp thy grave; Though gaunt wolves prowl around thee,

And the field rat digs her cave; As softly wilt thou slumber

As in thy chapel bed, Enshrined among the number

Of all thy kindred dead.
Dark was thine hour of dying !

No glimmer pierced the shade,
Save the flash from the cannon flying,

And the spark on the sabre blade.
No woman's form was nigh thee !

Thy brow received no tear!
But gallant men stood by thee,

And gazed upon thy bier.
No sign, no death-bed blessing,

No hand thy head sustained ;
But hostile arms were pressing,

And round thee havoc reigned.
The minute cannon tolling,

In lieu of funeral bell,
The drum thy'requiem rolling,

For saintly choral swell.
The plumes that waved above thee,

Were all of snowy white,
On the brows of those that love thee,

And bore thee through the fight.
Wrapt in thy war-cloak sleeping,

Thou hast a pall more proud Than funeral pages keeping

Watch round a silken shroud. In many a balmy slumber

That war-cloak lapt thee o'er ; And this among the number

As sweet as those before !

Thy Thy Grave---no death-stones bound it,

Únmarked, thy torn corpse lies ; But glory shines around it,

And glory never dies !

Farewell !---I sometimes view thee,

And deem thee here the while ; Though foreign showers bedew thee,

And I---tread thy native isle.

For memory can re-lighten

That open manly gaze,
That used to glance and brighten

In friendship's former days.

THE BOX OF RELÍCKS.

( By James Edmeston.)

Oh, raise not up that casket lid,

No riches there to tempt thee shine ; No pilfered treasure there lies hid,

Nor glittering gem from Ormian mine: Yet, dearer than the diamond's blaze,

To me those seeming trifles are ; Memorials of departed days,

And wrecks of forms, though faded, fair.

Remembrancers---yet do not these

Alone diffuse this shadowy gloomThe evening walk, the favourite trees,

The empty seat, the vacant room : These tell me, wheresoe'er I go,

There was a time.--though now 'lis pastThat once--it was not always so--

But that was far too bright to last! Yes---sightless to another's view,

To me, there lurks in many a place, Beneath a heaven of cloudless blue,

A shade the sun can never chase : And though afar should light, and day,

And every form I love, depart; From memory I can never stray,

Nor lull the thoughts that burn my heart.

Yet

Yet might I close my aching eye,

And some short hours of respite steal,
Though dreams of joy might waft them by,

I would not--- it is sweet to feel :
'Tis sweet to catch the seraph tone

Of love, ere yet the dream be fled ;
But sweeter, far, to sit alone,

And meditate upon the dead.

FAIRY TALE.

( By James Edmeston.)
W10 hath not heard of the fairies' sport,
Their elfin monarch, and glittering court ?
When the dance they have held by the rippling stream,
While their glow-worm lamps in the darkness gleam;
Or smiles the fair light of the pale moon beam,
When the traveller, wildered in forest forlorn,
Starts at the sound of their bugle horn,
As footed the tiny masquers o'er
The golden ripples and emerald shore;
Or sailed their queen adown the flood,
In yacht of azure harebells' bud;
While proud her little navies ride
In pigmy grandeur by her side,
In gallies of the meadow's pride.
Listen a moment, and I will tell
Of what, in the village, is known full well :
In the midst of the forest of Berrytree
There blossomed a circle right fair to see;
The spot was dimpled in form of dell;
It was the wood faes' favourite cell;
Oh, 'twas the sweetest, wildest spot,

That Nature ever made;
There rose a flowery latticed grot,

Of a thousand tinted shade.
The harebell's hue, and the violet blue,
And the sweet-briar joined her fragrant bough ;
And the purple heath, and a woodbine wreath,
Twined lovelily round its brow;
And the thyme's perfume, and the yellow broom,
Spread over the ground a golden bloom,
And formed to the sight
A carpet bright,
of richest fairy tapestry:
And there the butterfly's crimson wings

In winnowing circlets play ;
And the wild bee, pirate of odours, brings

The

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