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ON FIRST HEARING CARADORI SING.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

MUSE of immortal grace, and heavenly song!
No more despairing search the mortal throng,
One spirit like thyself, 'mid human kind,
With voice as sweet, and looks as fair, to find;
Oh! listen, and suspend thy parting wings,
Listen for, hark! 'tis Caradori sings !—
Hear, in the cadence of each thrilling note,
Tones, scarce of earth, and sounds seraphic float;
Mark in the radiant smile that lights her face,
Mark, in her look, a more than earthly grace,
And say, repaid for every labour past,
"Beautiful Spirit! thou art found at last!"

TO THE CHASE-FIELD AWAY.

(From the Annals of Sporting and Fancy Gazette.)

"Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy."-Old Song.

HILLIHO-hilliho! to the Chase-field away,
The sun he is up in his chariot of day,

And the dew is his tear, and the light cloud his frown,
That you still snore away on your pillow of down :-
Hilliho-hilliho! snatch the coif from your head,
And put on the sportsman's gay doublet of red.

Iilliho-hilliho! the steed neighs in the stall,
A challenge as gay as the war-trumpet's call,
And the splendour of Spirity, the sinew of fame,
Lights up his dark eye, and his nostril of flame;
Hilliho-hilliho!-press his sleek sides and ride
Where the glad hearts are met by the bonny brake side,

Hilliho-hilliho!-there are Stuart, and Ray,
And Marlow astride on his Kill-devil bay;

And Wyndham, whose goodness all true fellows know,
At the tail of the fox, or the face of the foe:
Hilliho-hilliho! round the covert we wheel,
The old cap on our brow, the old spur at our heel.

Hilliho-hilliho! there's a voice on the gale,
And echo, enamour'd, repeateth the tale;

The

game it is roused, and the welkin has rung
With the best of all music, the hound's jovial tongue :
Hilliho-hilliho! we compete with the wind,
And where now is the craven to loiter behind?

Hilliho-hilliho! like wild spirits we fly,

And our track is as bright as a meteor of sky:
Hark forward through valley, o'er hill, clash along,
Diana herself seems to ride in our throng—
Hilliho-hilliho! see our proud coursers bound
To the horn's lusty scream, and the song

of the hound.

Hilliho-hilliho! the long day it is o'er,
And our field it is scatter'd, so gallant before;
Some fell in the rough brake, some fell in the plain,
But their fame moults no feather, their badges no stain:
Hilliho-hilliho! ay, again they shall ride

In our race for the brush, at the green covert side!

Salisbury, 1824.

A. M. TEMPLETON, Jun.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

["Some of the Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world."-Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.]

THOU art come from the Spirit's land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the Spirit's land!

Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that distant shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more.

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the fountain of youth ere now,

For there must the stream in its gladness burst,
Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or dance, or song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours.

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!

Then tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call, and they answer not again-
Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?

And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wanderings o'er the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird, that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?

THE MOSS ROSE.

[From the German of KRUMMAGER.

EREWHILE, in Orient's sunny clime,
When earth-born things were yet in prime,
Nor guilt the golden bands had riven
That link'd in peace the earth to heaven,
The angel-sprite, whose bounded powers
Are given to tend the tribes of flowers,-
Each leaf at eve with balm bedewing,
At morn each faded charm renewing,-
One noon, on spring's first petals laid,
Had couch'd him in a Rose-tree's shade.

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Refresh'd, anon he raised his head,
And, smiling, to the Rose-tree said,
My loveliest child, my darling Rose!
Accept the thanks thy father owes
Thanks for thy fragrance, freely shed
From ruby cup around my head,-
Thanks for thy cool, reviving shade,
While slumbering in thy shelter laid!
O ask!-whate'er the boon-'tis thine;
The joy to grant the boon be mine."-

"Then o'er my form new beauties shed,"
At once the Rose-tree's spirit said:
And, lo ere scarce the words have birth,
From fragrant wreaths slow struggling forth,
The loveliest flower with moss is braided,
The humblest weed her branches shaded!

Yet, Lina! hadst thou mark'd, when there
The lowly weed enrobed the Fair,
What nameless charms-what graces new
Its chasten'd lustre round her threw,-
While, all around, the flowers were seen
Do homage to the Rose's Queen,—
O! thou'dst have doff'd that robe of pride,
And, simply deck'd, as Nature bade,

Scorn'd Fashion's-worse than useless-aid!

THE SWISS POET.

WHEN the black howling tempest is raging around me,
I'll start from the chains which to this world have bound me,
With my lyre in my hand, I'll ascend from the vale,
With the speed of the chamois, the rude mountain scale,
Whose bleak summit, wrapt in a garment of snow,
Like a pale banner gleams through the darkness below;
There give me, ye lightnings! a spark of your fire,
'Mid the clouds, I'll awake the wild notes of my lyre.

The bolt whizzes past.Hark! the deep-rolling thunder!—
The proud oaks are shiver'd, the rocks part asunder.
From the far hidden caverns the echoes awake;
On the crag's rugged bosom, like long billows break;
The avalanche, torn from the white peak on high,
Bears the forest before it, and swift rushes by;
The rock's broken masses are swept in its trail,
Till the crash of its ruin is heard in the vale.

In the clouds which beneath me tumultuously sail,
The eagle is clapping her wings to the gale,
Screaming, and swelling the blast with her moan;
Destroy'd is her dwelling, her young ones are gone.
With her pinions around them, she lay in her nest;
She smiled on the storm, for it lull'd them to rest;
Till the avalanche came, with its earth-shaking force,
And swept all she cherish'd away in its course.

Here, as on nature's dread conflict I ponder,

My thoughts are raised high, and my heart swells with wonder;
The tempest's dark terrors awake not my fear,

For the Great One who rides in the whirlwind is near.
As the hill rock beneath, and the clouds fly before thee,
Mighty Spirit! I fall to the earth, and adore thee,
Whose voice is the thunder, whose breath is the storm!
When he bows at thy throne, what is man, but a worm?

SAUL AND JONATHAN.

Fall'n are the mighty-Israel's beauty sleeps,
And mourning Judah for her ruler weeps :-
Fall'n are the mighty-lost the victor wreath,
The King, the Lord's anointed rests in death,
The mighty monarch who all Israel sway'd,
Whom distant regions honour'd and obey'd.
Unhappy fate-unworthy of the brave,
Wants the cold honours of a warrior's grave.
Relate it not in Askelon or Gath,
Lest it excite the Gentile's scornful laugh,
Lest the proud daughters of Philistia sing
The song of triumph o'er our fallen king.

And thou, oh, Gilboa! who hast braved sublime
The raging tempest and encroaching time,
Let no moist dew on thee be thenceforth found,
Nor kindly rain refresh the thirsty ground.
There lies the shield that Israel's Monarch bore,
And there the fields are drench'd with regal gore.
Daughters of Israel, rend the hair and weep
O'er those who now in cold oblivion sleep:
No more to deck you shall the warriors toil
With proud Philistia and Amalek's spoil,
Swift as the eagle darts upon his prey,
Strong as the lion they did urge their way.

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