THE WATER! THE WATER!

THE water! the water!

The joyous brook for me,

That tuneth, through the quiet night,

Its ever-living glee. The water! the water!

That sleepless, merry heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly, And loveth to impart

To all around it some small measure

Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The water! the water!

The gentle stream for me,

That gushes from the old gray stone, Beside the alder tree.

The water! the water!

That ever-bubbling spring

I loved and looked on while a child,
In deepest wondering,-

And ask'd it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.

The water! the water!

The merry, wanton brook, That bent itself to pleasure me,

Like mine own shepherd crook.

The water! the water!

That sang so sweet at noon, And seeter still all night, to win s from the pale, proud moon, .rom the little fairy faces

That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

The water! the water!

The dear and blessed thing, That all day fed the little flowers On its banks blossoming.

The water! the water!

That murmur'd in my ear Hymns of a saint-like purity,

That angels well might hear; And whisper, in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.

The water! the water!

Where I have shed salt tears,
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.

The water! the water!

Where I have happy been,

And shower'd upon its bosom flowers

Cull'd from each meadow green,

And idly hoped my life would be
So crown'd by love's idolatry.

The water! the water!

My heart yet burns to think

How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,
For parched lip to drink.
The water! the water!

Of mine own native glen;

The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again;
Though fancy fills my ear for aye
With sounds that live so far away!

The water! the water!

The mild and glassy wave, Upon whose broomy banks I've long'd To find my silent grave.

The water! the water!

Oh bless'd to me thou art;
Thus sounding in life's solitude,
The music of my heart,

And filling it, despite of sadness,
With dreamings of departed gladness.

The water! the water!

The mournful, pensive tone, That whisper'd to my heart how soon This weary life was done.

The water! the water!

That roll'd so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful

Was its soul's purity;

And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn at Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
'The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

"Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,

"Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

"Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sittin' on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,

What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said
We cleek'd thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnie hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burn-side,
And hear it's water's croon ?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wand'rings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper as it rins
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining
With purest ray,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms
Burst through that clay; [twining,
Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory
On that low mound;

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crown'd;

Will there be then one versed in misery's story
Pacing it round?

It may be so, but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,-

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,
From hearts that bleed,
The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;

And though thy bosom should with grief be swell-
Let no tear start;
[ing,

It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knellSad one, depart! [ing

O AGONY! KEEN AGONY!

O AGONY! keen agony,

For trusting heart, to find

That vows believed were vows conceived

As light as summer wind.

O agony! fierce agony,

For loving heart to brook

In one brief hour the withering power

Of unimpassion'd look.

O agony! deep agony,

For heart that's proud and high,
To learn of fate how desolate
It may be ere it die.

O agony! sharp agony

To find how loth to part

With the fickleness and faithlessness
That break a trusting heart!

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER

MONTHS.

THEY come! the merry summer months

Of beauty, song, and flowers;

They come the gladsome months that bring
Thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up my heart! and walk abroad,
Fling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself
Where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast

Of patriarchal tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky
In rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch

Is grateful to the hand,

And, like the kiss of maiden love,
The breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup

Are nodding courteously,

It stirs their blood with kindest love
To bless and welcome thee:

And mark how with thine own thin locks

They now are silver gray-

That blissful breeze is wantoning,

And whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along
The ocean of yon sky

But hath its own wing'd mariners
To give it melody:

Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread
All gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical,
Their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones,
Who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys,
And vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,
From yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim, green glade

Did breathe his own glad name;—
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird,
That apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous
To the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—
His notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound

The deep founts of the heart!
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon

For thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers
Beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath
Their little souls away,

And feed my fancy with fond dreams
Of youth's bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt,
The reckless truant boy

Wander'd through green woods all day long,
A mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now, I have had cause;
But oh! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore
I yet delight to drink ;-

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream,
The calm, unclouded sky,

Still mingle music with my dreams,
As in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light
Fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse-
A heart that hath wax'd old.

I AM NOT SAD.

I AM not sad, though sadness seem
At times to cloud my brow;

I cherish'd once a foolish dream,—
Thank Heaven 'tis not so now.
Truth's sunshine broke,
And I awoke

To feel 'twas right to bow
To fate's decree, and this my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

I grieve not, though a tear may fill
This glazed and vacant eye;
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will,
But soon again they die;

An idle gush,

And all is hush,

The fount is soon run dry:

And cheerly now I meet my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

I am not mad, although I see
Things of no better mould
Than I myself am, greedily
In fame's bright page enroll'd,
That they may tell
The story well,

What shines may not be gold. No, no! content I court my doom, The darkness of a nameless tomb.

The luck is theirs-the loss is mine,
And yet no loss at all;
The mighty ones of eldest time,
I ask where they did fall?
Tell me the one

Who e'er could shun

Touch with oblivion's pall?
All bear with me an equal doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

Brave temple and huge pyramid,
Hill sepulchred by art,

The barrow acre-vast where hid
Moulders some Nimrod's heart;
Each monstrous birth
Cumbers old earth,
But acts a voiceless part,
Resolving all to mine own doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
Tradition with her palsied hand,
And purblind history, may

BENEATH A PLACID BROW. BENEATH a placid brow,

And tear-unstained cheek,

To bear as I do now

A heart that well could break;

To simulate a smile

Amid the wrecks of grief,

To herd among the vile,

And therein seek relief,-
For the bitterness of thought
Were joyance dearly bought.
When will man learn to bear
His heart nail'd on his breast,
With all its lines of care

In nakedness confess'd?—
Why, in this solemn mask
Of passion-wasted life,
Will no one dare the task

To speak his sorrows rife ?—
Will no one bravely tell
His bosom is a hell?

I scorn this hated scene

Of masking and disguise,
Where men on men still gleam,
With falseness in their eyes;
Where all is counterfeit,

And truth hath never say;
Where hearts themselves do cheat,
Concealing hope's decay,
And writhing at the stake,
Themselves do liars make.
Go, search thy heart, poor fool!
And mark its passions well;
"Twere time to go to school,-

"Twere time the truth to tell,— "Twere time this world should cast Its infant slough away,

And hearts burst forth at last
Into the light of day ;-
"Twere time all learn'd to be
Fit for eternity!

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A STEED, a steed of matchlesse speed!
A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlings of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;
And O! the thundering presse of knightes
Whenas their war-cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine :
Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,-
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!

WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?

WHAT is glory? What is fame?
The echo of a long lost name;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow:

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow ;-

The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast,—
This is the world's fame at the best!
What is fame? and what is glory?
A dream,-a jester's lying story,
To tickle fools withal, or be
A theme for second infancy;
A joke scrawled on an epitaph;
A grin at death's own ghastly laugh.
A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch-nonentity;
A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting for ever

O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never;

A bubble, blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;

The witch-fire of a frenzied brain;
A fortune that to lose were gain;
A word of praise, perchance of blame;
The wreck of a time-bandied name,-
Ay, this is glory!-this is fame!

THIS poet was born in London, in 1798. His father, a native of Scotland, was a bookseller and publisher. The subject of our biography was educated at an academy in Camberwell, and after taking a sea-voyage for the benefit of his health, was apprenticed to an uncle to learn the art of engraving. Some verses which he published meantime in the "London Magazine," attracted so much attention as to induce him to abandon the graver for the pen, and he has been since known as a man of letters. He is the author of "Whims and Oddities," "The Comic Annual," and other humorous productions, some of which have had an unparalleled popularity; and he is deserving of great reputation for his admirable compositions of a more serious description, of which we give liberal specimens. His longest poem, "The Plea of the Mid

summer Fairies," was published in 1828, and is designed to celebrate by an allegory that immortality which SHAKSPEARE has conferred on the fairy mythology by his "Midsummer Night's Dream." "The Sylvan Fay," and "Ariel and the Suicide," in the following pages, are from this poem, and will give the reader an idea of its style. He soon after wrote "Tylney Hall," a novel, and on the death of THEODORE HOOK became editor of Colburn's "New Monthly Magazine," which he conducted until the beginning of the present year, when he established "Hood's Comic Miscellany," a monthly periodical of which the character is sufficiently indicated by its title. The striking lyric entitled "The Song of a Shirt," appeared but a few weeks ago, and is the latest of Mr. Hood's compositions which we have seen.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.*

"T was in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;

But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest was apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:

*The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher, subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside;

For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide :

Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp

He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
"O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took,-
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook,→

And, lo! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book!

"My gentle lad, what is't you read-
Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?"

The young boy gave an upward glance,"It is The Death of Abel.""

The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain,