Come thou to my bower deep in the dell,

Thou Queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell,—
That land of a thousand gilded domes,
The richest region that Fancy roams!

I have sought for thee in the blue harebell,
And deep in the foxglove's silken cell,

For I feared thou hadst drank of its potion deep,
And the breeze of this world had rocked thee asleep.

Then into the wild rose I cast mine eye,

And trembled because the prickles were nigh,
And deemed the specks on the foliage green
Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen;
Then gazing, wondered if blood could be
In an immortal thing like thee!

I have opened the woodbine's velvet vest,
And sought in the lily's snowy breast;
At gloaming lain on the dewy lea

And looking to a twinkling star for thee,
That nightly mounted the orient sheen,
Streaming with purple and glowing with green,
And thought, as I eyed its changing sphere,
My Fairy Queen might sojourn there.

Then would I sigh and turn me around,
And lay my ear to the hollow ground,
To the little air-springs of central birth
That bring low murmurs out of the earth;
And there would I listen in breathless way,
Till I heard the worm creep through the clay,
And the mole deep grubbing in darkness drear,
That little blackamoor pioneer;

Nought cheered me, on which the daylight shone,
For the children of darkness moved alone;
Yet neither in field nor on flowery heath,
In heaven above nor in earth beneath,
In star nor moon nor midnight wind,
His elvish Queen could her Minstrel find.

But now have I found thee, thou vagrant thing,
Though where I neither may say nor sing }

But it was in a home so passing fair

That an angel of light might have lingered there;

It was in a palace never wet by the dew,

Where the sun never shone, and the wind never blew,
Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er lay,

And never was kissed by the breeze of day;

As sweet as the woodland airs of even,
And pure as the star of the western heaven:
As fair as the dawn of the sunny east,

And soft as the down of the solan's breast.

Yes, now have I found thee, and thee will I keep,
Though spirits yell on the midnight steep,

Though the earth should quake when nature is still,

And the thunders growl in the breast of the hill.

Though the moon should scowl through her pall of gray,

And the stars fling blood on the Milky Way;

Since now I have found thee I'll hold thee fast

Till thou garnish my song,-it is the last :
Then a maiden's gift that song shall be,

And I'll call it a Queen for the sake of thee.

As a contrast, we copy the honourable picture of domestic happiness and affection which Allan Cunningham has painted, with his pen dipped in all the colours of truth.

THE POET'S BRIDAL DAY SONG.

O! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,-
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee!

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughters sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee and thoughts of thee belong

All that charms me of tale or song;

When words come dowu like dews unsought
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,

And fancy in her heaven flies free

They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,—
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower;
O then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;

And proud resolve and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can speak;

I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

Poets can imagine what they please. How different from the foregoing is the following, signed Bion, but evidently by a hand of superior order!

FIDELITY. (From the Spanish.)

One eve of beauty, when the sun
Was on the stream of Guadalquiver,

To gold converting, one by one,
The ripples of the mighty river;
Beside me on the bank was seated
A Seville girl with auburn hair,

And eyes that might the world have cheated,
A wild, bright, wicked, diamond pair!

She stooped, and wrote upon the sand,
Just as the loving sun was going,
With such a soft, small, shining hand,

I could have sworn 'twas silver flowing.
Her words were three, and not one more,
What could Diana's motto be?

The Syren wrote upon the shore-
'Death, not inconstancy !'

And then her two large languid eyes
So turned on mine, that, devil take me,
I set the air on fire with sighs,

And was the fool she chose to make me.
Saint Francis would have been deceived
With such an eye and such a hand :
But one week more, and I believed

As much the woman as the sand.

It is one of the charms of this little book, that every new subject changes its tone, and that we are amused by the transitions, from grave to gay—from serious to sportive. Thus Mr. Montgomery, in his 'Friends,' again recalls us to

sober thoughts.

Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,—

Beyond the reign of death,-
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire!

There is a world above
Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere !

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are past away;

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in Heaven's own light.

Mr. Bowles has a very striking dramatic sketch on a historical passage, of which it is rather extraordinary that Shakspeare did not make any use in his Richard III.; we allude to the flying of Elizabeth with her second son to the sanctuary, as related by Speed. But this is too long for quotation, and we must be contented with the following neat Apologue from the same pen.

THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST.

The swallows at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu

To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,

As council and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake;
Then one disdainful turned his eye
Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn-
"Thou household imp, obscure forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shivering shalt thou stay,
Whilst we who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where Summer, still on some green isle,
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile.
Thus speeding, far and far away,
We leave behind the shortening day."

" 'Tis true, (the red-breast answered meek,)
No other scenes I ask, or seek ;

To every change alike resigned,

I fear not the cold winter's wind.

When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;

But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,

I learn to pity those that roam,

And love the more my humble home."

We cannot say that any of the productions in this volume, high as is their merit, have pleased us more than the following. The two leading ideas in the first part are most poetically expressed, and the application in the end is very effective. It is written by Mr. Hervey, whose Australia we recently reviewed, and is entitled The Convict Ship.'

Morn on the waters!-and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along;
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there are hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high,

Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast,

Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain !
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who-as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken forever?

Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
"Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled;

All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs ;

Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears ;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er !

TALES OF IRISH LIFE.