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THE NILE.

Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wish'd-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the

bay.

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It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a

dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands, Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roam'd through the young world, the glory

extreme Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great

hands. Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,

As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,

And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

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ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold :
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou ?" The vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, «The names of those who love the Lord.”
" And is mine one ?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had

bless'd, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think

Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,

Of fancied faults afraid ;
The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand

Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones

I will not think of now;
And calmly midst my dear ones,

Have wasted with dry brow :
But when thy fingers press,

And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,

The tears are in their bed.
Ah! first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new; Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father, too:
My light where'er I go,

My bird when prison-bound,
My hand in hand companion,-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say, “ He has departed,” —

“His voice,-his face,-is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on: Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such wo,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fix'd and sleeping !

This silence too the while-
Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile :-
Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,
Who say, “We've finish'd here."

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SPRING IN RAVENNA.

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil,
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ;
And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea--
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out

openly. 'Tis Nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:The birds to the delicious time are singing,

BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.

Mr. Proctor, better known as Barry CORN | chair, in a large library, notwithstanding, I WALL, was born in London, and educated at found the poet himself-choice old pictures Harrow, where Byron was among his class- | filling every nook between the book-shelves, mates. On leaving school he entered the tables covered with novels and annuals, rolls office of a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire: an of prints, busts and drawings in all the core uninteresting town, but celebrated for having ners; and, more important for the nonce, a been at various periods the residence of table at the poet's elbow, set forth with as Bowles, CRABBE, COLERIDGE, and Moore, sensible a breakfast as the most unpoetical of with all of whom PROCTOR became intimately men could desire.” acquainted. At the end of four years, passed Mr. Proctor married a daughter of Basil in the study of his profession, he went to Lon Montagu, the best of Lord Bacon's editors, don, and was soon after called to the bar. and a friend and patron of literary men. “The

Mr. Proctor's Dramatic Scenes—the work exquisite beauty of the Dramatic Scenes," our in which he first appeared as an author-were traveller informs iis, “interested this lovely published in 1815. They were succeeded by woman in his favour before she knew him, A Sicilian Story, Marcian Colonna, The Flood and far from worldly-wise as an attachment of Thessaly, the tragedy of Mirandola, and so grounded would seem, I never saw two several volumes of dramatic fragments, songs, people with a more habitual air of happiness. and miscellaneous poems, which have toge- | I thought of his touching song, ther won him a very high position among con

* How many summers, love, temporary poets. Charles Lamb said of his

llast thou been mine?' Fragments, that there was not one of them, and looked at them with an irrepressible feelhad he found them among the Garrick Plays ing of envy. A beautiful girl of eight or nine in the British Museum, to which he would years, the golden-tressed Adelaide,' delicate, have refused a place in his Dramatic Speci- gentle, and pensive, as if she was born on the mens. His songs are among the best in the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's English language. They are full of tender- child, completed the picture of happiness....... ness and enthusiasm ; and if not as carefully “I took my leave of this true poet after half finished as they might be, they flow musically a day passed in his company,” continues Mr. and naturally like the unstudied effusions of Willis, “ with the impression that he makes an improvisator. Proctor has written besides upon every one of a man whose sincerity his poems several works in prose, among and kind-heartedness were the most promiwhich are a Life of Edmund Kean, a Lifel nent traits in his character. Simple in his of Ben Jonson, and An Essay upon the Genius language and feelings, a fond father, an affecof Shakspeare.

tionate husband, a business-man of the closest N. P. Willis, a warm admirer of the poet, habits of industry-one reads his strange imahas given in his Pencillings by the Way anginations, and high-wrought and even subliinteresting account of his visit to him in 1838. mated poetry, and is in doubt at which most 6. With the address he had given me at part to wonder—the man as he is, or the poet as ing,” says Mr. Willis, “I drove to a large / we know him in his books." house in Bedford square; and, not accustomed An edition of Mr. PROCTOR'S English to find the children of the muses waited on by Songs and other Short Poems was published servants in livery, I made up my mind, as I in London by Moxon in the summer of 1844; walked up the broad staircase, that I was and they have been reprinted in this country blundering upon some Mr. Proctor of the by Ticknor and Company of Boston. I beexchange, whose respect for his poetical lieve no edition of his dramatic writings has namesake, I hoped, would smooth my apology appeared in the United States. The selections for the intrusion. Buried in a deep morocco in this volume are from the last English edition.

So, wealth by want will be o'erthrown,
And want be strong and guilty grown,

Swollen out by blood.
Sweet peace! who sitt'st alost, sedate,
Who bind'st the little to the great,
Canst thou not charm the serpent Hate?

And quell this feud ?
Between the pomp of Cræsus' state,
And Irus, starved by sullen fate-

"Tween “thee” and “me"-
"Tween deadly frost and scorching sun-
The thirty tyrants and the one

Some space must be.
Must the world quail to absolute kings,
Or tyrant mobs, those meaner things,

All nursed in gore-
Turk's bowstring—Tartar's vile ukase-
Grim Marat's bloody band, who pace

From shore to shore ?
O God !-since our bad world began,
Thus hath it been—from man to man

War, to the knife!
For bread-for gold-for words—for air !
Save us, O God! and hear my prayer!
Save, save from shame—from crime—despair,

Man's puny life!

STANZAS.

THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

Hark-to the sound!
Without a trump, witbout a drum,
The wild-eyed, hungry millions come,

Along the echoing ground.
From cellar and cave, from street and lane,
Each from his separate place of pain,

In a blackening stream,
Come sick, and lame, and old, and poor,
And all who can no more endure;

Like a demon's dream!
Starved children with their pauper sire,
And labourers with their fronts of fire,

In angry hum,
And felons, hunted to their den,
And all who shame the name of men,

By millions come.
The good, the bad, come hand in hand,
Link'd by that law which none withstand ;

And at their head
Flaps no proud banner, flaunting high,
But a shouti-sent upwards to the sky,

Of « Bread !-Bread!"
That word their ensign-that the cause
Which bids them burst the social laws,

In wrath, in pain,
That the sole boon for lives of toil
Demand they from their natural soil :-

Oh, not in vain !
One single year, and some who now
Come forth, with oaths and haggard brow,

Read prayer and psalm,
In quiet homes : their sole desire
Rude comforts near their cottage fire,

And Sabbath calm.
But hunger is an evil foe:
It striketh truth and virtue low,

And pride elate:
Wild hunger, stripp'd of hope and fear!
It doth not weigh; it will not hear;

It cannot wait. For mark what comes :-To-night the poor (All mad) will burst the rich man's door,

And wine will run
In floods, and rafters blazing bright
Will paint the sky with crimson light,

Fierce as the sun;
And plate carved round with quaint device,
And cups all gold will melt, like ice

In Indian heat!
And queenly silks, from foreign lands,
Will bear the stamps of bloody hands

And trampling feet :
And murder-from his hideous den
Will come abroad and talk to men,

Till creatures born
For good (whose hearts kind pity nursed)
Will act the direst crimes they cursed

But yester-morn.

That was not a barren time

When the new world calmly lay Bare unto the frosty rime,

Open to the burning day. Though her young limbs were not clad

With the colours of the spring, Yet she was all inward glad,

Knowing all she bore within,

Undeveloped, blossoming. There was beauty, such as feeds

Poets in their secret hours; Music mute ; and all the seeds

And the signs of all the flowers.
There was wealth, beyond the gold

Hid in oriental caves;
There was—all we now behold

"Tween our cradles and our graves. Judge not, then, the poet's dreams

Barren all, and void of good: There are in them azure gleains,

Wisdom not all understood. Fables, with a heart of truth;

Mysteries, that unfold in light; Morals, beautiful for youth;

Starry lessons for the night. Unto man, in peace and strife,

True and false, and weak and strong, Unto all, in death and life,

Speaks the poet in his song.

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