With head up-rais'd, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,
In listening mood, she seem'd to stand
The guardian Naiad of the strand !

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly ting’d her cheek with brown,-
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Sery'd too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow :
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measur'd mood had train'd her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ;
E'en the slight hare-bell rais’d its head,
Elastic, from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The list'ner held his breath to hear.

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combin'd
Above a heart more good and kind.

Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess’d
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danc'd in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer
Or tale of injury callid forth
The indignant spirit of the North.

Scott.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

TREAD softly- bow the head

In reverent silence bow -
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow :
There's one in that

poor

shed One by that paltry bed

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state,
Enter- no crowds attend-
Enter- no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Lifting with meagre hands

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound

An infant wail alone;
A sob suppress'd — again
That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.

Oh! change-oh wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars. —
This moment there, so low,
So agoniz'd, and now

Beyond the stars !

Oh! change - stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks
The new immortal wakes -
Wakes with his God.

MRS. SOUTHEY.

THE SHIP'S DEPARTURE.

STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide,

To some far distant land adventurous bound ; The sailors' busy cries from side to side

Pealing among the echoing rocks resound; A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,

Joyful they enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native land,

And know no care beyond the present day.

But is there no poor mourner left behind,

Who sorrows for a child or husband there? Who at the howling of the midnight-wind

Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer! So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind ! Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!

SOUTHEY.

THE SHIP'S RETURN.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,

The gallant bark! along her watery way Homeward she drives before the favouring gales ;

Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.

Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound,

Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyag'd o'er the distant seas,

And what a heart-delight they feel at last,

So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desir'd, he only knows,

Who on the stormy deep for many a day

Hath tost, aweary of his ocean way, And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.

SOUTHEY.

MARCH.

The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild stormy month! in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,

Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast join'd the gentle train,

And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,

Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the chang’d winds are soft and warm,

And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills,

Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides

Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,

And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.

BRYANT.

L