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Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

2. O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Hogg.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. [LEIGH Hunt, born 19th October, 1784, is the author of various

poems, none of which have taken a deep hold on the public mind. His shorter pieces are better known than his longer

works. He died 28th August, 1859.] 1. King FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal

sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the

court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by

their side, And ’mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he

hoped to make his bride ; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning

show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal

beasts below.

2. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing

jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their

paws ; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled

one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thun

d'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing

through the air; Said Francis then, “ Good gentlemen, we're better

here than there!”

3. De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous,

lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which

always seemed the same : She thought, “ The Count, my lover, is as brave

as brave can be ; He surely would do desperate things to show his

love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is

wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory

shall be mine!”

4. She dropt her glove to prove his love: then looked

on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions

wild : The leap was quick ; return was quick; he soon

regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in

the lady's face! “In truth!” cried Francis, “rightly done!" and

he rose from where he sat: “No love," quoth he, “ but vanity, sets love a task like that!”

HUNT.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. [THOMAS Hood, born 1798, was the son of a London bookseller.

His works abound in sparkling wit and humour. His true power as a poet is best seen in such pieces as our extract. He died 3rd May, 1845.]

1. One more unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death !
2. Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,

Young, and so fair.
3. Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements :
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing,
4. Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully ;

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her ;
All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.
5. Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful ;
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.
6. Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily.

7. Loop up her tresses,

Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment

guesses
Where was her bome?
Who was her father ?

Who was her mother ?
Had she a sister ?

Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, or a nearer one

Yet, than all other? 8. Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity

Under the sun !
Oh! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full,

Home had she none ! 9. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed ;
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.
10. Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light
From many a casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.
11. The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch

Or the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurled
Anywhere! anywhere

Out of the world ! 12. In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly

The rough river ran ;
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,

Dissolute man !
Lave in it-drink of it

Then, if you can. 13. Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly,

Young, and so fair. 14. Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,
Smooth and

compose

them; And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly! 15. Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,

Fixed on futurity. 16. Perishing gloomily,

Spurr'd by contumely,
Bold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,
Into her rest;

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !

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