Hymning in air,

Nor harper's lay divine,
E'er witch'd this heart of mine
Like that sweet voice of thine,
That evening there.

And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy list'ning ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name,

I could not answer-though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same-
Hearing no answ’ring sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Turning away your head
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.

And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own-

That heart, that ne'er hath known
A flame before,

That form, of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine,
Those locks of gold are mine
For evermore.

Was lover ever seen

As blest as thine, Caitlin?

Hath ever lover been

More fond, more true?

Thine is my ev'ry vow!

For ever dear, as now!

Queen of my heart be thou!
My Colleen rhu.*

*In the original mo cailin ruadh ;-that is to say, “my red girl," meaning red-haired girl. De gustibus, &c. But let us suppose the lady's locks were auburn. Those, however, who look on a beloved object with eyes of admiration care little for form or tint. Desdemona

"Saw Othello's visage in his mind."

The Scotch lady who so profoundly admired the late eloquent Dr. Irving, reconciled herself to his squint by declaring, he gleyed na mair than a mon o' genius suld.

THE YOUNG POET.

DYING AT A DISTANCE FROM HOME.

By ROBERT STORY. One of England's self-taught bards.
O BURY me not in yon strange spot of earth-
My rest never sweet, never tranquil can be;
But bear me away to the land of my birth,

To a scene-O how dear and how pleasant to me!
If you saw how the sunbeams illumine the mountains,
How brightly they lie in the glen that I choose;
Could the song of its birds, and the gush of its fountains,
Through your
souls the rapture and freshness diffuse,
Which erst in life's morning they shed over mine-
O your hearts would confess it is all but divine!

Nay-call it not raving. A stranger I came,

And a stranger amongst you I ever have been; When I stepp'd from my circle you found me the same Vain trifler as thousands besides in the scene; But I lived in a circle of fancy and feelingA world of fair forms-a creation of bliss, Though never to mortal the secret revealingMy first and my latest disclosure is thisThis dying request, the last light of the dreamO do not despise it, though strange it may seem! I know it-the grave which to me you assign

Is black in the shade of your dreary church wall, Where nettle and hemlock their rankness combine, And the worm and the sullen toad loathsomely crawl. O! where is the primrose, so meet for adorning The grave of a minstrel cut off in his bloom? O! where is the daisy, to shed in the morning

The tears it hath gather'd by night for my doom? And dearer, far dearer than anguish can tell,

Where, where are the friends that have loved me so well?

Thrice blest be those tears! they descend on my heart Like the soft rain of spring on a perishing flower— And may I expire in the hope they impart,

That yet I shall rest by my favourite bower? Heaven love you for that! Like the flower I have shown

you,

No more to expand in the loveliest ray, And breathing its last sigh of perfume upon you, My spirit all grateful shall vanish away! For, laid in the glen by the stream and the tree, Deep, hallow'd, and happy my slumber shall be! See! one aged mourner comes, trembling, to place A weak, withered hand on the grave of her sonSee! Friendship, to tell how I strove in the race, But died ere the chaplet of glory was wonAnd Beauty-I plaited a wreath for that maiden, When warm was my heart, and my fancy was high— See Beauty approaches with summer flowers laden, And strews them when nought but the blackbird is nigh: Thus, thus shall I rest with a charm on my name, In the shower-mingled sunshine of Love and of Fame!

Brilliants.

GOD'S TIME.

God lights both stars and souls; their glory is Their measure of His being. Who would shine In His full light must tarry like the stars And bide God's time-not in hibernal coil, But with a watchful soul laid bare to heaven And in a ceaseless prayer, drinking in The light that moves him onward to his rise. ANONYMOUS.

A TRUE WOMAN.

She is of the best blood, yet betters it
With all the graces of an excellent spirit:
Mild as the infant rose, and innocent

As when heaven lent her us. Her mind, as well
As face, is yet a Paradise untainted

With blemishes, or the spreading weeds of vice.

ROBERT BARON.

RESIGNATION.

But that tall castle height must fall,
The mountain where the golden sun has hid,
The rocks where lonely eagles sullen rest,
The peaceful vale with orient honours clad,
The boundaries of the raging billow's crest,
The burning stars in their supernal vault,
Must render up their native majesty
When the shrill trumpet of the angel sounds:
But the soft notes of Resignation's voice
Shall join the choir of heaven's great palaces,
And rest for aye in holy presence there.

FAME.

SHAKSPERE.

For time shall with his ready pencil stand,
Retouch her figure with his gifted hand:
Mellow soft colours, and embrown the tint:
Add every grace which time alone can grant:
To future ages shall her fame convey,
And give more beauty than he takes away.

DRYDEN.

A FAREWELL TO VERSE.

Sweet Muse! my friend of many years-farewell!
Sweet Mistress, who did never do me wrong:
But still with me hast been content to dwell
Through summer days and winter evenings long:
Sweet nurse, whose murmur sooth'd my soul, farewell!
I part with thee at last and with thy song!

Never again, unless some spirit of might,
That will not be denied, command my pen,
Never again shall I essay to write

What thou (I thought) didst prompt: never again,
Lose me in dreams until the morning light,
Or soar with thee beyond the worlds of men.

Farewell!—the plumage drops from off thy wing:
Life and its humbler tasks henceforth are mine!
The lark no longer down from heaven doth bring
That music which in youth I deem'd divine:
The winds are mute: the river dares not sing:
Time lifts his hand-and I obey the sign!

MORNING.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Haggard and chill as a lost ghost, the morn, With hair unbraided and unsandalled feetHer colourless robe like a poor wandering smokeMoved feebly up the heavens, and in her arms A shadowy burden heavily bore; soon fading In a dark rain, through which the sun arose Scarce visible, and in his orb confused.

HORNE.

MAN AND WOMAN.

As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman,

Though she bends him, she obeys him,
Though she draws him yet she follows,
Useless each without the other.

LONGFELLOW.