Imatges de pÓgina
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THE THRUSH'S NEST.

I. Clare. WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,

That overhung a mole hill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the

sound With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day, How true she wrapped the moss to form her

nest, And modelled it within with wool and clay. And by-and-by, like heath bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as

flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;

And there I witnessed in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

TO THOSE DEPARTED.

Ant-
The storm that wrecks the wintry sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh

That shuts the rose.

SIC VITA.

D. Ring.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like the wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

WRITTEN ON A TOMBSTONE IN
MELROSE ABBEY.

Suor.
EARTH Walketh on the earth,
Glistering like gold;
Earth goeth to the earth,
Sooner then it wold;
Earth buildeth on the earth,
Palaces and towers ;
Earth sayeth to the earth,
All shall be ours.

SONNET.

இரா. Yes, they are still the same-the eternal sky, The circling hills that bound my native vale, The old familiar trees, the southern gale That steals from ocean's breast the rising sigh ; The winding stream whose murmuring lullaby Should woo my soul to peace; the joyful song Of close secluded bird, that all day long Pours forth his tender burst of minstrelsy; But oh! ye dear companions of my youth, Where are ye fed? I call—but to my voice Ye make no answer.-Melancholy truth! That nature should be changeless, but the joys That follow life so soon should pass away, While things so 'fair and sweet,' do bid them

stay.

ON READING THE LIFE OF MILTON.

Samuel Gower.

So goes the world—some with a pen of iron
Ensculpturing the rocks of time unseen,
While others, writing on the gaping sand,
Call round an amphitheatre of eyes,
On what an hour's full tide will wash away.

SABBATH SONNET.

Mrs, Ermans.

COMPOSED FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED

TO HER BROTHER.]

How many blessed groups this hour are

bending, Through England's primrose meadow paths,

their way

Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy

elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hal

low'd day! The Halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft

winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish

bed Of sickness bound. Yet, oh, my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath

hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings

peace

still'd To one deep calm, of lowliest thankfulness.

ECHO.

Milton.
SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen

Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcisssus are ?

Oh ! if thou have
Hid them in some flow'ry cave,

Tell me but where
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's

harmonies.

LIFE.

Byron. BETWEEN two worlds, life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's

verge. How little do we know that which we are,

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