Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played, Woe, yet not long!-She lingered but to trace The Earth grew silent when thy voice departed, Here, with the Lyre and Sword! Have ye not met ere now ?-So let those trust, Brother! sweet Sister!-peace around ye dwell; Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell! Beautiful as this is, we can place a fit companion by its side in the lines which L. E. L. has written to illustrate the engraving of 'The Decision of the Flower,' from Göethe's Faustus. They are at once playful, and replete with tender sentiment. The dew is yet on the grass and leaves, To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun Must woo and win ere the day be done. She braided back her beautiful hair O'er a brow like Italian marble fair. She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears Like an eastern army its golden spears. The lark flew up as she passed along, And poured from a cloud his sunny song; Or lay on the blossoms glistening; And with scarlet poppies around like a bower, If my lover loves me, and loves me well; 1 Great though be the masculine names which adorn these pages, we are sure the proudest of them would be flattered by following in this train. Yet we are at a loss whom to station foremost. Stand forth, however, James Hogg, for thy verse is chivalrous, imaginative, and gallant. INVOCATION TO THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES. No Muse was ever invoked by me, But a harp uncouth of olden key; And with her have I ranged the border green, I knew not whence were the strains till now. Thou seest thyself, and smil'st to see A shepherd kneel on his sward to thee; O come from thy halls of the emerald bright, Its warp of the moonbeam and weft of the dew; Then she, who raised old Edmund's lay And the sons of the morning with it drew, Come thou to my bower deep in the dell, Thou Queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell,- The richest region that Fancy roams! I have sought for thee in the blue harebell, And deep in the foxglove's silken cell, For I feared thou hadst drank of its potion deep, And the breeze of this world bad rocked thee asleep. Then into the wild rose I cast mine eye, And trembled because the prickles were nigh, I have opened the woodbine's velvet vest, And looking to a twinkling star for thee, Then would I sigh and turn me around, Nought cheered me, on which the daylight shone, But now have I found thee, thou vagrant thing, But it was in a home so passing fair That an angel of light might have lingered there.; It was in a palace never wet by the dew, Where the sun never shone, and the wind never blew, And never was kissed by the breeze of day; As sweet as the woodland airs of even, Yes, now have I found thee, and thee will I keep, Though spirits yell on the midnight steep, Though the earth should quake when nature is still, And the thunders growl in the breast of the hill. Though the moon should scowl through her pall of gray, And the stars fling blood on the Milky Way; Since now I have found thee I'll hold thee fast Till thou garnish my song,—it is the last : And I'll call it a Queen for the sake of thee. As a contrast, we copy the honourable picture of domestic happiness and affection which Allan Cunningham has painted, with his pen dipped in all the colours of truth. THE POET'S BRIDAL DAY SONG. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, Even while I muse, I see thee sit We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughters sweet; And time and care and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose ; All that charms me of tale or song ; When words come down like dews unsought And fancy in her heaven flies free They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave of old 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower!- And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, O then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye; And proud resolve and purpose meek, Speak of thee more than words can speak; I think the wedded wife of mine The best of all that's not divine! Poets can imagine what they please. How different from the foregoing is the following, signed Bion, but evidently by a hand of superior order! FIDELITY. (From the Spanish.) One eve of beauty, when the sun To gold converting, one by one, Beside me on the bank was seated A Seville girl with auburn hair, And eyes that might the world have cheated, She stooped, and wrote upon the sand, I could have sworn 'twas silver flowing. The Syren wrote upon the shore- And then her two large languid eyes And was the fool she chose to make me. As much the woman as the sand. It is one of the charms of this little book, that every new subject changes its tone, and that we are amused by the transitions, from grave to gay-from serious to sportive. Thus Mr. Montgomery, in his 'Friends,' again recalls us to sober thoughts. Friend after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend? Beyond the flight of time, Beyond the reign of death,- There is a world above Formed for the good alone; Thus star by star declines, Till all are past away; As morning high and higher shines Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in Heaven's own light. Mr. Bowles has a very striking dramatic sketch on a historical passage, of which it is rather extraordinary that Shakspeare did not make any use in his Richard III.; we allude to the flying of Elizabeth with her second son to the sanctuary, as related by Speed. But this is too long for quotation, and we must be contented with the following neat Apologue from the same pen. THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST. The swallows at the close of day, To climes where soon the winter drear Shall close the unrejoicing year. |