There is no glory left us now,
Like the glory with the dead:
I would that where they slumber now
My latest leaves were shed!"

O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree !
That mournest for the past,
A peasant's home in thy shade I see,
Embower'd from every blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound
Of laughter meets mine ear;

For the poor man's children sport around
On the turf, with nought to fear.

And roses lend that cabin-wall
A happy summer-glow;

And the open door stands free to all,
For it recks not of a foe.

And the village-bells are on the breeze

That stirs thy leaf, dark tree !

How can I mourn, 'midst things like these,
For the gloomy past with thee?

.Anonymous.

Chorus from the Bacche of Euripides.

FROM Tmolus, whose majestic brow
Views Asia stretching wide below,
Light my frolic steps advance,
And to Bacchus lead the dance;
An easy, pleasing task, whilst high
Swells to the god the voice of harmony.
Is there who comes along the way?
Are there who in their houses stay?
Hence, begone, whoe'er you are!

To hallow'd sounds let each his voice prepare.
The song to Bacchus will I raise,

Hymning in order meet his praise.

STROPHE I.

His happy state what blessings crown
To whom the mysteries of the gods are known?
By these his life he sanctifies;

And, deep imbibed their chaste and cleansing lore,
Hallows his soul for converse with the skies,

Enraptured ranging the wild mountains o'er:

The Voice of Spring.

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in shadowy grass,

By

the green leaves opening as pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the falling fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin, or the tomb!

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the stormy sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay, through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain-
They are rolling on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home;
Ye of the rose-cheek, and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
me forth to the sunshine; I may not stay!

Ode to Pity.

WHEN Pity first on earth appear'd,
A female's form the seraph wore;
And, imaged in her voice and look,
Her god-like mission mildly bore.
The child of Misery heard that voice,
And all his cares were lull'd to sleep;
The mourner sigh'd-but, in that look,
The moisten'd eye forgot to weep.
O Wealth! to Misery's claims awake;
Thy meed bestow for Pity's sake!
No more condemn'd on earth to roam,
The immortal Maid to heaven returns;
Yet, though a stranger here below,

In thousand breasts her influence burns.
And, foremost in her votaries' train,
The softer sex their homage pay;
Where pallid Want demands their aid,
The first to point and lead the way
O Wealth! to Misery's claims awake;
Thy meed bestow for Pity's sake!
Ye greatly rich, ye proudly great,-
Who bask in fortune's noontide ray,
Hie to the scene, where pining Wo

Drags cheerless through life's wintry day:
But chiefly bend your willing steps
To where the shivering female lies,

The friendless aged of that sex

Whose worth we court,-whose love we prize. O Wealth! to Misery's claims awake;

Thy meed bestow for Pity's sake!

Think, ye who press the downy couch,
What miseries on the helpless wait;
And from your rich profusion give,
To raise them from their fallen state.
No transient honours mark the aid,
To suffering virtue freely given;
A lasting and a bright reward

Awaits the grateful deed in heaven.
O Wealth! to Misery's claims awake;
Thy meed bestow for Pity's sake!

Anonymous.

The Voice of Spring.

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the falling fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin, or the tomb!

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the stormy sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay, through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain-
They are rolling on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home;
Ye of the rose-cheek, and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine; I may not stay!.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

Mrs. Hemans.

The Invocation.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,

That pass'd the reach of human sight,
Even as a breeze hath flown?-

And the stars answer'd me- We roll

In light and power on high;

But of the never-dying soul
Ask things that cannot die!"

O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free!
Tell me, if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea?-
And the wind murmur'd in reply-
"The blue deep have I cross'd,
And met its bark and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost!"

Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! be ye a home for those

Whose earthly race has run ?——

The bright clouds answered-" We depart,
We vanish from the sky:

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die!"

Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!

Answer me through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?-

And the voice answer'd-" Be thou still,

Enough to know is given;

Clouds, winds, and stars, their task fulfil,
Thine is to trust in Heaven!"