THE GREEK EXILE.

THIS is a fair and lovely spot,

And cherished by a kindly hand;

But oh! its loveliness is not

Like that which clothes our father-land;

For there the deserts wild and rude,
Have spirits in their solitude!

The naked rock, the black defile,

The stream that rolls in darkness by, The olive mount, the sea-girt isle,—

Each have their record proud and high; "Go stranger, to thy fellows tell There patriots fought, there patriots fell!"

The poet's song doth mingle there,

With all that nature's bounty yields; All that exists of grand or fair,

Its snow-clad hills, its laughing fields; And I through this cold world must roam, An exile from that happy home.

Son of the Morning! what art thou?

We are a nation of the dead,

The life, the spirit, vanished now,

And darkness o'er our dwellings spread,—

But monuments sublime are there,

Which thou must gaze on, and despair.

And here the Athenian trumpet rang― And here was heard the Spartan flute

Till far and wide the battle clang

Sounded above the horn and lute,
As on they rushed,—and many a brand
Was shivered for their father-land.

Alas! alas! 't is desolate,

And all that thou canst now behold, Are relics mute, inanimate,—

Faint tokens of the times of old: Whose seal and impress yet they bearBut whose renown we may not share.

Yet shall the fond remembrance trace
The triumphs that our land hath known,
The majesty that crowned a race
Of heroes in the ages flown!

And future days perchance shall bring
Deeds worthy that the bard may sing.

The ruined fane, the broken stone

That crumbles at thy touch, doth tell Of peopled towns, that now are lone, Or where their humble offspring dwell: Ay, cringing to the ground they go, And feel not, or belie their woe.

But go thou forth, my soul, beyond

The view stretched out before thine eye, And fear thou not, nor e'er despond,

But o'er the storm's deep thunder cry"Hellas! the time-thy time-is come! Awake! arouse thee from the tomb!"

Yet visions of the night are mine,

And day-dreams of the joy to be, That whisper with a voice divine,

"Thy heart shall feel, thine eyes shall see A glory o'er the land arise,

And Freedom's banner flout the skies!"

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

O who has not hearkened in days of his childhood,
To tales that were told of the lost fairy land,-
Whose denizens sported at night through the wild wood,
Or chased the blue waves on the moon-lighted strand;
Nor sometimes been tempted to doubt whether knowledge
Be worth the belief it has driven away ;—

Whether all the lore gathered at school or at college,
Hath pleased like the visions of fairies at play!

Fairy land was the dream of the world when awaking From her second long slumber of darkness and dread, When even superstition began to be taking

Some tinges of beauty and light ere she fled: Then fancy delighted, first mingled her terrors,

Of demons and ghosts, with the lovely and fair, And called to adorn her, this dearest of errorsOf fairies on earth, and of sylphs in the air.

But now the world's older-they say it is wiser,
I wish they could prove it is happier too;
But I fear that, as much as we think we despise her,
We oft sigh for pleasures that ignorance knew.

The fairies, alas! are for ever gone from us,

The joys of our childhood in age leave no trace,—

But I cannot discover the raptures they promise

Our wisdom shall bring us, have yet filled their place.

The shepherd has often ranged o'er mountains and valleys,
A look at the elves in their gambols to steal;
And whene'er disappointed, has thought it their malice
That would not themselves or their treasures reveal:-

But tell me, ye sages, who smile at the story,

Were YE never lured by as foolish a thoughtHave ye never chased riches, or splendour, or glory,

For pleasures they never would give you, if caught?

We all are deceived by some phantom or other,
Like dreams of the Fairy-land, bright but untrue;
And the fancy we smile to perceive in another,
Only altered in shape, is beguiling us too.

Do not frown at my moral-'t will give you assistance
To keep in your view the true sources of bliss;
The joys that shall light up another existence,
The friendship and love that console us in this.
Literary Magnet.

THEY ARE NO MORE.

BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ.

THEY are no more! Oh, dull and drear,
Sound those bereaving, mournful words;
Affliction finds no wilder tear,-
Memory no darker doom records:
Not in our homes, not by our side,
Move the bright beings we deplore ;
The hearts which love had sanctified,

They are no more!

O! breathes there one that hath not known

The parting word—the dying look-
While in the soul grief walked alone,

And every pulse with anguish shook :

Some cherished one that blessed him there,

-as sunlight from the shore

And past

ZARACH.

Woe! woe! the young—the loved—the fair—

They are no more!

The music of their lips hath fled,
Their grace and beauty passed away;
Yet lives the presence of the dead
Within our souls, as light in day!
A fresher light shall burst the tomb,
And all the blessed lost restore;

Unknown those words of wail and gloom.

Literary Magnet.

They are no more!

2 A

A PAINTING BY LESLIE.

BEAUTIFUL and radiant May,
Is not this thy festal day?
Is not this spring revelry

Held in honour, queen, of thee?
"Tis a fair; the booths are gay,

With green boughs and quaint display;
Glasses, where the maiden's eye
May her own sweet face espy;
Ribbons for her braided hair;
Beads to grace her bosom fair;
From yon stand the juggler plays
With the rustic crowd's amaze;
There the morris-dancers stand,
Glad bells ringing in each hand;
Here the maypole rears its crest,
With the rose and hawthorn drest;
And beside are painted bands
Of strange beasts from other lands.
In the midst, like the young queen,
Flower-crowned, of the rural green,
Is a bright-cheeked girl-her eye
Blue, like April's morning sky,
With a blush, like that the rose
To her moonlight minstrel shows;
Laughing at her love the while,—
Yet such softness in the smile,
As the sweet coquette would hide
Woman's love by woman's pride.
Farewell, cities; who could bear
All your smoke and all your care,
All your pomp, when wooed away
By the azure hours of May?
Give me woodbine-scented bowers,
Blue wreaths of the violet flowers,

Clear sky, fresh air, sweet birds, and trees,

Sights and sounds and scenes like these! Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.