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When they have been too often crush'd to (Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
It is their fiercest enemy; For further blindness to their little worth, He of the charm'd and deadly steel, When fond illusions have dropt one by one, Whose stroke was never known to heal,Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none He of the sword sworn not to spare,Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string, She flung her down in her despair! And this is all what time will ever bring. - And that fair girl, what can the heart
The dying chief sprang to his knee, Of her young love, and of its destiny?
And the staunch'd wounds well's fearfully; There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its But his gash'd arm, what is it now?
Livid his lip, and black his brow, Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm;
While over him the slayer stood, It is an omen, it may tell the fate
As if he almost scorn'd the blood Of love known all too soon, repented all too
That cost so little to be won,
He strikes,—the work of death is done! late.
TABY fled,-for there was for the brave
She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt Left only a dishonour'd grave.
of the spring-wind in its first sunshine-hour, The day was lost; and his red hand
For the luxuriant strawberry-blossoms spread Was now upon a broken brand,
Like a snow-shower there, and violets The foes were in his native town,
Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume
About her pillow,- link d in a gay band The gates were forced, the walls were down,
Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards, The burning city lit the sky,
Her lithe and rainbow elves.
Where is there we have not been
First around thy couch shall sweep
Odours, such as roses weep
Many a low and silver note,
Stolen from a dark-eyed maid Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp When her lover's serenade, The sword that trembled in its clasp. Rising as the stars grew dim,
Waken'd her from thoughts of him;
There shall steal o'er lip and cheek
Gales, but all too light to break
| Thy soft rest,—such gales as hide Burst in red gushes from his side,
Or that, while hot noontide, dwell And hung the drops on brow and cheek,
| In the purple hyacinth-bell; And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak.
And before thy sleeping eyes
Shall come glorious pageantries,
| Palaces of gems and gold,
Such as dazzle to behold, The water which his hot lip sought,
Gardens, in which every tree And anxious gazed upon his eye,
Seems a world of bloom to be, As asking, shall we live or die ?
Fountains, whose clear waters show Almost as if she thought his breath
The white pearls that lie below.Had power o'er his own life and death.
During slumber's magic reign
Other times shall live again;
Then again be wood and won
She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, By thy stately OBERON.
A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. or thou shalt descend to earth,
Surely her love is blest, no leaves are there And see all of mortal birth.
That aught of lover's misery declare. No, that world's too full of care
True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, For e'en dreams to linger there.
Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour; But, behold, the sun is set,
Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow And the diamond coronet
Of those who part to-day to meet to-morros: Of the young moon is on high
For there are hope and constancy beside, Waiting for our revelry;
And are not these to happiness allied ? And the dew is on the flower,
And yet upon that maiden's cheek is caught And the stars proclaim our hour;
A summer - evening's shade of pensive Long enough thy rest has been,
thought, Wake, Titania, wake our queen!
As if these large soft eyes knew all their fate,
An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.-
So clear as if their very tears were lightBY PICKERSGILL.
They tell that destiny ;-art thon not one
To whom love will be like the summer-sun TAROUGH the light curtains came the per- That feeds the diamond in the secret mine,
Then calls it from its solitude to shine, And flung them back and show'd a garden, And piece by piece be broken? Watch the where
bloom, The eye could just catch glimpses of those And mark its fading to an early tomb,
And read in the decay upon it stealing Which send sweet messages upon the breeze Of thy own wasted hope and witherd To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek,
feeling ;When inward thoughts in outward blushes Ay, fitting messengers for love! as fair,
As quickly past as his own visions are;Beneath 's a silken couch, just fit to be Fling, fling the flowers away! A snowy shrine for some fair deity; And there a beauty rests, lovely as those Enchanted visions haunting the repose Of the young poet, when his eyelids sbut To dream that love they have but dream'd THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.
as yet ; But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be
BY DANBY. A happiness but made for phantasie! And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye AND there the island lay, the waves around Seems as it read in them her destiny.
Had never known a storm; for the northShe knew whose hand had gather'd them,
wind she knew
Was charın'd from coming, and the only airs Whose sigh and touch were on their scent That blew brought sunshine on their azure and hue.
wings, Or tones of music from the sparry caves,
Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own,
conch. But only to the spring and summer known. These were sea-breezes,—those that swept Ah! little marvel in such clime and age
the land As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage, Brought other gifts,-sighs from blueviolets, That we should daily hear that love is fled, Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings
Stole odourg. On the silver mirror's face Not for the cold, the careless to impart, | Was but a single ripple that was made By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart: By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings But surely in the countries where the sun Shone like a meteor on the stream: around, Lights loveliness in all he shines upon, Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, Where love is as a mystery and a dream, And shells of many colours, and sea-weeds, One single flower upon life's troubled stream; Whose foliage caught and chaind the There, there, perchance, may the young
Nautilus, bosom thrill, Where lay they as at anchor. On each side Feeling and fancy linger with love still. Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps
of the green marble; and a lovely light,
of the rainbow's colour'd line,of a departing star but faintly seen | See how its rose and amber clings In the dim distance, through those caverns To the many hues of my radiant winge;
Mine is the step that bids the earth And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'Give to the iris-flower its birth,
And mine the golden cup to hide, Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft Where the last faint hue of the rainbow bells
died. To call the bees from the anemone,
Search the depths of an Indian mine, Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth. Where are the colours to match with mine? -Amid those arches floated starry shapes, Just indistinct enough to make the eye Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front, Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans, There lay a lovely figure,-she was queen Dance we round, for the gale is bringing of the Enchanted Island, which was raised Songs the summer-rose is singing. From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her: And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea, The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves.
I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute, She was the daughter of a king, and loved
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, By a young Ocean-Spirit from her birth,
1, Linger I over the tones that swell He hover'd o'er her in her infancy,
From the pink-vein'd chords of an oceanAnd bade the rose grow near her, that her
I love the sky-lark's morning-hymn, Might catch its colour, - lighted up her | Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain's melody, With fairy-wonders, and made harmony
| These, oh! these are the spells for me!
Hail to the summer-night of June;
FAIRIES ON THE SEA-SHORE.
Set with spars by the ocean-wave;
Would ye have gems,then seek them there,
There found I the pearls that bind my hair. My home and haunt are in every leaf,
I and the wind together can roam Whose life is a summer-day, bright and
| Over the green waves and their white foam,brief,
See, I have got this silver shell, I live in the depths of the tulip's bower,
Mark how my breath will its smallness swell, I wear a wreath of the cistus-flower,
For the Nautilus is my boat I drink the dew of the blue harebell,
In which I over the waters float,I know the breath of the violet well,
The moon is shining over the sea,
Who is there will come sail with me?
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
mez. Our noontide-sleep is on leaf and flower,
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,
What is there sweet, what is there fair, CHORUS OF PAIRIES.
And we are not the dwellers there?
Dance we round, for the morning-light, Dance we our round, 'tis a summer-night, Will put us and our glow-worm-lamps to And our steps are led by the glow-worms'
night! light. .
A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE FROM Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Shadow each of Paradise,
Where the flowers shine with dyes,
Tinted bright from the sun-rise,
Where the birds which drink their dew, Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child, Wave wings of yet brighter hue, Ay, screen it if you may,
And each river's course is rollid
Oh! for those lime-scented groves
Tuning to the western star,
His soft song and light guitar, Some evil thing must be.
Where the dark-hair'd girls are dancing,
Fairies in the moonlight glancing, Ay, moralize, is it not thus
With pencill'd brows, and radiant eyes, We 've mourn'd our hope and love? Like their planet-lighted skies! Alas! there '8 tears for every cye,
Or those clear Italian lakes
Where the silver cygnet makes
Fit for beauty and for me:
I must seek their happier sphere
While the Winter lords it here.
Away, away, o'er land and sea,
LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE.
BY W. J. THOMSON.
Ay, surely it is here that Love should come,
And find (if he may find on earth) a home;
Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame Grass of its green blade bereft, These are all that now are left.
That cling like shadows to his very name -Linger here another day, I shall be as sad as they ; My companions fly with spring,
Young Love, thou art belied: they speak I too must be on the wing.
of thee, And couple with thy mention misery;
Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom, Where are the sweet gales whose song The spirit blighted, and the early tomb; Wont to waft my darts along ?
As if these waited on thy golden lot, Scented airs ! oh, not like these,
They blame thee for the faults which thou Rough as they which sweep the seas;
hast not. But those sighs of rose which bring
Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee Incense from their wandering.
The soil and weight of their mortality? Where are the bright flowers that kept How can they hope that ever links will hold Guard around me while I slept ?
Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh Where the sunny eyes whose beams
gold? Waken'd me from my soft dreams –
Or worse than even this, how can they think These are with the swallows gone,
That vanity will bind the failing link ? Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.
How can they dream that thy sweet life
Crowde', palaces', and cities' heartless air! Oh! for some sweet southern clime, Where the lip smiles while the heart's Where 'tis ever summer-time,
desolate, Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Is amid new birth of bloom,
Where looke and thoughts alike must feel Where green leaves are ever springing,
the chain, Where the lark je always singing, And nought of life is real but its pain; One of those bright isles which lie Where the young spirit's bigh imagining Fair beneath an azure sky,
1 Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;
Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd | 'Tis strange to think if we conld fling aside
The masque and mantle that love wears A marvel and a sign for mockery;
from pride, Where none must wander from the beaten How much would be, we now so little gucsa,
Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought All alike champ the bit, and feel the gond.
recess. It is not made for thee, young Love! away The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, To where the green earth laughs to the The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,
And for a cloak what is there that can be To the deep valley, where a thousand trees So difficult to pierce as gaiety? Keep a grecn court for fairy-revelries, Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow To some small island on a lonely lake, Seems to hide something it would not avow, Where only swans the diamond-waters break, But rainbow-words, light laugh, and thoughtWhere the pines hang in silence o'er the tide
less jest, And the stream gushes from the mountain- | These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form These, Love, are haunts for thee; where Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's canst thou brood
storm, With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude ? Has hidden well her wound,- now none are
nigh To mock with curious or with careless eye, (For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes,
Strikes at the root of its best happiness, A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS. And mockery is worm-wood) she may dwell
On feelings which that picture may not tell. BY NEWTON.
SAs was just risen from her bended knee,
NYMPH AND ZEPHYR. cheek, And thoughts upon the lips which never A STATUARY GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT.
speak, But wring the heart that at the last they And the summer-bun shone in the sky,
And the rose's whole life was in its sigh, Alas! how much of misery may be read | When her eyelids were kies’d by a morningIn that wan forehead, and that bow'd-down
And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever
dream; Love should thus struggle with a vain For she had watch'd the midnight-hour
Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping Against itself: it is a common tale,
O'er the lithe grass-stem and the blossom's It matters not its history; love has wings
head, Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs From the lilies' bells she dash'd not the spray, Like a wild flower where it is least expected, For her feet were as light and ag white as Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content,
Sudden upon her arm there shone Hopeless, for love is its own element, A gem with the hues of an Indian stone, Requiring nothing so that it may be And she knew the insect-bird whose wing The martyr of its fond fidelity.
Is sacred to Psyche and to Spring; A mystery art thon, thou mighty one! But scarce had her touch its captive prest, We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun Ere another prisoner was on her breast, To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's And the Zephyr sought his prize again,
No, said the Nymph, thy search is vain : Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs, And her golden hair from its braided yoke And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke: Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize Yet all deny their master, who will own | Over the pleasure that from thee flies; His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy Then it is pleasure,- for we possess
But in the search, not in the success.