These savage rocks enormous piled,
In their long prospect o'er the wild,
See no wild-wasting, cruel drove
Of disciplined destroyers move.
Fair as from nature's hand they came,
Mountains and vales remain the same.
No deed of wrath, no dire offence
Of human passion, bold and wrong,
Hath scared the meek-eyed genius hence,
Who prompts and loves my simple song.
Admit me, Genii, that among

These grots and secret fountains dwell,
Into your philosophic throng,—

Calm spirits, whom I love so well!

And let my soul resign proud Reason's state, And passive on each heavenly impulse wait.

To poets humbly thus resign'd,

The great earth shows her inmost mind, And speaks, in tones more sweet, more mild

Than woman's music to her child,

Her wondrous being's mysteries,
Baring her deep heart to their eyes.

There play the springs whence ebb and flow
All human joy, all human woe.
Knowledge divine! thy cheering ray,

Descending to the simple mind,
Purges all doubt and grief away,
Nor leaves one angry wish behind.
All creatures, then, of every kind,
Partake our sympathy and love,
Seen guided to the goal assign'd

By HIM, dread Power!-All powers above!
Spirits of hills and streams! my teachers be,
If this high wisdom be foredoom'd to me.

Love.

WH

Love.

BY FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

WHEN the tree of life is budding first,
Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed,
Its infant life has been,

The wild bee's slightest touch may wring
The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,
And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first,
'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,
'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.

A breath can bid it burn no more,-
Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour.

83

'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head,

Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,
Whose light is not of joy.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
The infant buds of Love,

And tread his growing fire to earth,

Ere 'tis dark in clouds above.
Cherish no more a cypress tree,
To shade thy future years,

Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quench'd only with thy tears.

Conscience.

ASPIRIT sits with me by day

A spirit sits with me by night;
In the warm sun's refulgent ray—
In the cold moon's unclouded light.

It whispers where the wild winds sigh-
It glitters in the dewy glade;

If to the forest's depths I fly,

It blackens in the blackest shade.

It lies with me on banks of flowers;
With me beside the stream it sits;
And, where the blossoms fall in showers,
The spirit, like a meteor, flits.

If, where the waves are bounding dark,
Adventurous, to my boat I flee;
Beside me, in the shadowy bark,

It toils upon the tumbling sea.

A Woman's Farewell.

If, when the night clouds roll away,
I look upon those worlds afar,
White as the whitest cloud of day,
I see it flit from star to star.

I hear it in the breeze that wails

Around the abbey's mouldering walls; I hear it in the softest gale

That ever sigh'd through marble halls.

Its voice is ever in my ear

Its hand is often on my brow;

Its shriek, its thrilling shriek, I hear-
I feel its icy fingers now.

85

A Woman's Farewell.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

ARE thee well!-'Tis meet we part,

FA

Since other ties and hopes are thine; Pride that can nerve the lowliest heart,

Will surely strengthen mine.

Yes, I will wipe my tears away,

Repress each struggling sigh;

Call back the thoughts thou ledd'st astray,
Then lay me down and die.

Fare thee well!-I'll not upbraid

Thy fickleness or falsehood now: Can the wild taunts of love betray'd Repair one broken vow?

But if reproach may wake regret,

In one so false or weak,

Think what I was when first we met,
And read it on my cheek.

Fare thee well!-On yonder tree
One leaf is fluttering in the blast,
Wither'd and sere—a type of me—
For I shall fade as fast.

Whilst many a refuge still hast thou,
Thy wandering heart to save

From the keen pangs that ring mine now;
I have but one-the grave!

S

Birds' Bests.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT,

PRING is abroad! the cuckoo's note

Floats o'er the flowery lea;

Yet nothing of the mighty sea

Her welcome tones import:

Nothing of lands where she has been,
Of fortunes she has known;
The joy of this remember'd scene
Breathes in her song alone.

No traveller she, whose vaunting boast
Tells of each fair but far off coast:

She talks not here of eastern skies,

But of home and its pleasant memories.

Spring is abroad! a thousand more
Sweet voices are around,

Which yesterday a farewell sound

Gave to some foreign shore;