Nor vainly bids those whom she charmed before; Her skill can judge the speaking of a friend; LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. Gleamings of poetry,- if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, In a pale twilight, or a rosebud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,-thoughts that are like light, Ir spread beneath the summer sky, A green turf, as just meet For lilies and blue violets, And in the midst a rose tree grew, I watched the beauty of that rose, Its June-touched bloom, its love-sweet breath, When suddenly, I marked how dark Its shadow fell beneath, Clings darkness to-I sadly thought— Literary Gazette. THE WALL-FLOWER. THE wall-flower-the wall-flower! Around the wrecks of time;- Flower of the solitary place! Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er, The clangour of the field has filed; The beacon on the hill No more through midnight blazes red,— But thou art blooming still. Whither hath fled the choral band Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand In the belfry's crevices, the dove Her young brood nurseth well, Whilst thou, lone flower! dost shed above A sweet decaying smell. In the season of the tulip cup, When blossoms clothe the trees, And on the hawthorn by the road Sweet wall-flower-sweet wall-flower! Thou conjurest up to me And summer skies were far more blue Now autumn's pensive voice is heard The robin is the regal bird, And thou the Queen of Flowers! And Araby ne'er gave the breeze Rich is the pink, the lily gay, The rose is summer's guest; And statelier on the tree; But, wall-flower, loved wall-flower! Thou art the flower for me! Literary Souvenir. THE RED FISHERMAN. BY W. M. PRAED, ESQ. Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Romeo and Juliet. THE abbot arose, and closed his book, A starlight sky was o'er his head, And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads: If he looked to the heaven, 't was not to invoke If he opened his lips, the words they spoke A pious priest might the abbot seem, He had swayed the crozier well; But what was the theme of the abbot's dream, Companionless, for a mile or more, He traced the windings of the shore. Oh, beauteous is that river still, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers, As a lover thinks of constancy, Or an advocate of truth. He did not mark how the skies in wrath He did not mark how the mossy path The water had slept for many a year, And the scent of human blood; And the birds that through the bushes flew, The water was as dark and rank As ever a Company pumped; And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped : And bold was he who thither came, At midnight, man or boy; For the place was cursed with an evil name, The abbot was weary as abbot could be, And he sate down to rest on the stump of a tree: When suddenly rose a dismal tone,— Was it a song, or was it a moan? "Oh, ho! Oh, ho! Above,-below!— Lightly and brightly they glide and go: |