WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw The violet, deep as your true love's eyes, Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing! Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours; One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, There is not a creature, from England's king, So,-sing, brothers, &c. THE STORMY PETREL. A THOUSAND miles from land are we, The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, THE SEA. THE sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide region's round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come, and awake the deep, I love, oh! how I love to ride But I loved the great sea more and more, The waves were white, and red the morn, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, With wealth to spend and a power to range, SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. SOFTLY WOO away her breath, Let her leave thee with no strife, She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away, Earth, into thy gentle bosom. She hath done her bidding here, Bear her perfect soul above, Seraph of the skies-sweet Love! Good she was, and fair in youth, And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth; Take her, then, for evermoreFor ever-evermore ! TO THE SOUTH WIND. O SWEET South Wind! Long hast thou linger'd midst those islands fair, Charm'd by the cloudless sun and azure air! Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind Wilt thou not unloose now, In this, the bluest of all hours, Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow We, whom the northern blast Blows on, from night till morn, from morn to eve, Hearing thee, sometimes grieve That our poor summer's day not long may last: And yet, perhaps, 'twere well We should not ever dwell With thee, sweet spirit of the sunny south; Once, and be gone unto our blasts again, And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow; MUSIC. All seem akin I SEE small difference One heavenly sense, and speak'st in ignorance. And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres FLOWERS. WE have left behind us The riches of the meadows, and now come REMEMBERED LOVE. Он power of love! so fearful and so fair- Of Fate were open'd to thine eyes alone- To deck the days to come-thy revelings KINGS. METHINKS There's something lonely in the state of kings! NIGHT THOUGHTS. "Tis night-still night! The murmuring world lies still! All things which are lie still and whisper not; HAPPINESS. A MONTH ago I was happy! No, Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy, Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch. But it was ever thus with Happiness: It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes. TO THE SINGER PASTA. NEVER till now-never till now, O Queen And wonder of the enchanted world of sound! Never till now was such bright creature seen, Startling to transport all the regions round! Whence comest thou-with those eyes and that fine mien, Thou sweet, sweet singer? Like an angel found Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled) A star 'mong clouds-a spirit mid the dead. Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings Perpetual sweetness near-divine despair! Thou speak'st-and music, with her thousand strings, Gives golden answers from the haunted air! Thou movest-and round thee grace her beauty flings! Thou look'st-and love is born! O songstress rare! Lives there on earth a power like that which lies In those resistless tones-in those dark eyes? Oh, I have lived-how long!-with one deep treasure, One fountain of delight unlock'd, unknown; But thou, the prophetess of my new pleasure, Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone; And now outgushes, without stint or measure, The endless rapture-and in places lone I shout it to the stars and winds that flee, And then I think on all I owe to thee! I see thee at all hours-beneath all skies In every shape thou takest, or passionate path: Now art thou like some wing'd thing that cries Over a city flaming fast to death; Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies: Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath :All things thou art by turns-from wrath to love; From the queen eagle to the vestal dove! Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmask'd In slow pale silence, or mid brief eclipse); But what are they to thy sweet strength, when task'd To its height-with all the God upon thy lips? Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked By one who in the book of darkness dips, Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit. Would I could crown thee as a king can crown! Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame, Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drownWhose light shall darken every meaner name? The gallant courts thee for his own renown; Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game: The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse; And I-alas!-I can but bring my verse! ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. OH thou vast Ocean! ever sounding sea! Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare HENRY KIRKE WHITE. FEW writers of verses have been more overrated than HENRY KIRKE WHITE, and it is a shame, that while there has never appeared in this country a single edition of the poetical writings of LANDOR, KENYON, MILNES, Miss BARRETT, and others of similar merit, there have been more impressions of WHITE than there have been of MILTON, or POPE, or COLE RIDGE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE was born in Nottingham, on the twenty-first of March, 1785. He was deemed a dull boy at school, where at the early age of eleven he began to write verses to satirize his teacher, for supposed injuries. He was in his fifteenth year articled to an attorney, in his native town, and while in his office acquired by diligent application a knowledge of the Greek, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian languages. An unfortunate deafness induced him to abandon the study of the law, and he published a small volume of poems with the expectation that the profits would enable him to enter one of the univer THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. OH! yonder is the well-known spot, Where I shall rest, no more to roam! O'er many a distant foreign land; But all their charms could not prevail Of distant climes the false report Allured me from my native land; It bade me rove-my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights, That graced yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet. Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen Shall while away the winter's eve. sities. In this he was disappointed; but several gentlemen stepped forward and became his patrons, and he entered St. John's College, at Cambridge, where he soon obtained a high reputation among his classmates for scholarship and for his personal virtues. His health was quickly impaired by his constant and earnest devotion to study, and he died on the nineteenth of October, 1806, in the twentyfirst year of his age. His poetical writings were collected soon after his death, and published with an elegant memoir by Dr. SOUTHEY. The admiration which they excited is said to have been almost unexampled. But a more correct estimate of his abilties now obtains. He was scarcely equal to the DAVIDSONS of New York, and it would be almost as absurd to compare him with KEATS or CHATTERTON as to compare ROBERT MONTGOMERY with MILTON. I doubt whether if he had lived to the maturest age, he would have produced any thing in poetry above elegant mediocrity. |