Love farewell!

After soft showers,

Spring-buds swell,

Into fair flowers

Bright o'er passing storm-clouds bending,

Rainbow hues are richly blending!

Love farewell!

After soft showers,

Spring-buds swell,

Into fair flowers.

THE TWO FOUNTS.

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY, WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN.

By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

'Twas my last waking thought, How can it be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st

endure?

When strait from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he

Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look,
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game,
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin,
TWO FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
That to let forth, and this to keep within!

But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of pleasure only will to all dispense,
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress

Choked or turn'd inward; but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright:

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,

On that benignant face, whose look alone

(The soul's translucence through her chrystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.

A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing
But with a silent charm compels the stern,
And fost'ring genius of the BITTER SPRING,
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,

And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam,
On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had pass'd: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.

Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
I pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!

In every look a barbed arrow send,
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give !

HALLORAN THE PEDLAR.

AN IRISH STORY.

By the writer of the " Diary of an Ennuyée."

"IT grieves me," said an eminent poet once to me, "it grieves and humbles me to reflect how much our moral nature is in the power of circumstances. Our best faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves did not the influences of external excitement call them forth like animalculæ, which lie torpid till wakened into life by the transient sunbeam.”

This is generally true. How many walk through the beaten paths of every day life, who but for the novelist's page would never weep or wonder; and who would know nothing of the passions but as they are represented in some tragedy or stage piece? not that they are incapable of high resolve and energy; but because the finer qualities have never been called forth by imperious circumstances; for while the wheels of existence roll smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in her vehicle like a lazy traveller.