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Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

SUNSET.

BYRON.

THE moon is up, and yet it is not night—
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be
Melted to one vast iris of the west,

Where the day joins the past eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns

With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As day and night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order :-gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows,

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:

And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away

The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone, and—all is gray.

A STILL WINTER'S NIGHT.

SHELLEY.

How beautiful this Night! The balmiest sigh
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which Love had spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome walls, whenee icicles depend,

So stainless, that their white and glittering spears
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that wrapt Fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of Peace,-all form a scene
Where musing SOLITUDE might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where SILENCE undisturbed might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still!

WHAT IS LIFE?

NEELE.

TELL me, what is Life, I pray?

'Tis a changing April day,

Now dull as March, now blithe as May;
A little cloud, a little light,

Nought certain but th' approach of night;
At morn and evening dew appears,
And life begins and ends with tears.

Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell?-
'Tis a varied-sounding bell,
Now a triumph, now a knell;

At first, it rings of hope and pleasure,
Then, sorrow mingles in the measure;
And then a stern and solemn toll,
The requiem of a parted soul.

Yet tell, I prithee, what is Life?-
'Tis a tale with wonder rife,
Full of danger, full of strife;

A tale, that first enchants the ear,
Then fills our souls with doubt and fear;
At last, with grief bows down our heads,
And sends us, weeping, to our beds.

Yet what is Life, again declare ?-
Oh! 'tis an arch of promise fair,
Built, like the rainbow, in the air;

H

Many a hue, but none that last,
Many a ray, but each soon past,
Form'd of things that soon must sever,
Swiftly gone, and gone for ever.

Still, what is Life?-A taper's light,
That feebly glimmers through the night,
And soon is quench'd in darkness, quite;
Each wind that spreads its flame, but hastes it,
Each touch that trims its splendour, wastes it:
And, brightlier as its lustre plays,
Sooner its fragile frame decays.

THE LAST SWALLOW.

R. HOWITT.

AWAY-away-why dost thou linger here, When all thy fellows o'er the sea have pass'd? Wert thou the earliest comer of the year, Loving our land, and so dost stay the last? Hear'st thou no warning in the autumnal blast? And is the sound of growing streams unheard? Dost thou not see the woods are fading fast, Whilst the dull leaves with wailful winds are stirred? Haste, haste to other climes, thou solitary bird!

Thy coming was in lovelier skies-thy wing,
Long wearied, rested in delightful bowers;
Thou camest when the living breath of spring
Had filled the world with gladness and with flowers!
Skyward the carolling lark no longer towers;

Alone we hear the robin's pensive lay;

And from the sky of beauty darkness lowers : Thy coming was with hope, but thou dost stay 'Midst melancholy thoughts, that dwell upon decay.

Blessed are they who have before thee fled! Theirs have been all the pleasures of the prime ; Like those who die before their joys are dead, Leaving a lovely for a lovelier clime, Soaring to beautiful worlds on wings sublime; Whilst thou dost mind me of their doom severe, Who live to feel the winter of their time; Who linger on, till not a friend is nearThen fade into the grave-and go without a tear.

THE DAISY IN INDIA.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THRICE Welcome, little English flower!
My mother country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies,

Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,

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