I build my emerald temples there when summer wanders

by;

I stir the mighty intellect, and nations rise or fall

I am that earthly Deity, the light and love of all!

THE LOST PATH.

THOMAS DAVIS.

SWEET thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,

All comfort else has flown;

For every hope was false to me,

And here I am, alone.

What thoughts were mine, in early youth!

Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and light, and truth,
My spirit gush'd along.

I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,

I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name-
Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,

I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.

But fancy has a magic power,

It brings me wealth and crown,

And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;

Oh throng around, and be to me

Power, country, fame, and bride.

THE GIFT OF POESY.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

APOLLO laid his lyre upon a stone

The stone was seized with music, and the touch Of mortal could awake the god's own tone

For ever after. Marvel ye not much : Wherever God may choose, or man may dwell, This is an ever acting miracle.

When once the gift of Godlike poesy

Hath touch'd the heart, it answers everything

In its own tongue, but in a harmony

Instinct with heaven. Let the world then fling Its arms of honour round the poet's breast,

And heaven shall hear earth's music, and have rest.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, BORN AT BRISTOL, AUGUST 12, 1774,
DIED AFTER A RESIDENCE OF NEARLY 40 YEARS,
AT GRETA HALL, MARCH 21, 1843, BURIED IN
CROSTHWAITE CHURCHYARD, NEAR KESWICK,

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops in the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town,

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it

And bade the stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?"' quoth he,

"For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life,

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drunk of the well of St. Keyne.",

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well;

And before the angel summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man henceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink it first,

God help the husband then !"

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes !" He to the Cornishman said:

But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head :

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;

But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."

THE LAND OF FAME.

ANONYMOUS. FROM THE AMERICAN MISCELLANY."

FEW pierce this limbo-land of cloud,
But doff their armour for the shroud,
And leave, to cheer their comrades on,
Their trophies-and their skeleton !

Yet inroads on this gloomy realm,
That mists and shawdows overwhelm,