HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Henry I. (after the loss of Prince William) entertained hopes, for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when certain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away; and it was remarked, that he never afterwards was seen to smile, nor ever recovered his wonted cheerfulness. HUME.

THE bark that held a Prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain !

Why comes not death to those that mourn ?--
He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,

The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?

Before him passed the young and fair

In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair,
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing;

He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring.

A murmur of the restless deep

Seemed blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep

He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And stranger's took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board.

Graves which true love had washed with tears

Were left to heaven's bright rain;

Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!

STANZAS

BY LORD BYRON.

AND wilt thou weep when I am low ?
Sweet Lady, speak those words again!
Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so;
I would not give thy bosom pain.

My heart is sad!—my hopes are gone !-
My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a beam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And, for a while my sorrows cease

To know that heart hath felt for mine!

O Lady! blessed be that tear,

It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tears may steep.

Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch-created to repine.

Then wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet Lady! speak those words again!

Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so;
I would not give thy bosom pain!
New Monthly Magazine.

DERWENT-WATER AND SKIDDAW.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

DEEP stillness lies upon this lovely lake.
The air is calm: the forest trees are still :
The river windeth without noise, and here
The fall of fountains comes not, nor the sound
Of the white cataract Lodore: The voice-
The mighty mountain voice-itself is dumb.
Only, far distant and scarce heard, the dash
Of waters, broken by some boatman's oar,
Disturbs the golden calm, monotony.
The earth seems quiet, like some docile thing
Obeying the blue beauty of the skies;

And the soft air, through which the tempest ran

So lately in its speed, rebels no more:

The clouds are gone which but this morning gloomed
Round the great Skiddaw; and he, wide revealed,
Outdurer of the storms, now sleeps secure
Beneath the watching of the holy moon.

But a few hours ago and sounds were heard

Through all the region: Rain and the white hail sang
Amongst the branches, and this placid lake
Teased into mutiny: its waves (these waves
'That lie like shining silver motionless)

Then shamed their gentle natures, and rose up
Lashing their guardian banks, and, with wild cries
Complaining, called to all the echoes round,

And answered rudely the rude winds, which then
Cast discord in the waters, until they

Amongst themselves waged wild and glittering war.

Oh! could imagination now assume

The powers it lavished in the by-gone days

On Fauns and Naiads, or in later times

Village religion or wild fable flung

O'er sylphs and gnomes and fairies, fancies strange,

Here would I now compel to re-appear
Before me,-here, upon the moon-lit grass,
Titania, blue-eyed queen, brightest and first
Of all the shapes which trod the emerald rings
At midnight, or beneath the stars drank merrily
The wild-rose dews, or framed their potent charms:
And here should princely Oberon, sad no more,
Be seen low whispering in his beauty's ear,

While round about their throne the fays should dance;
Others the while, tending that peerless pair,
Should fill with odorous juices cups of flowers.-
Here yet not so: from out thy watery home,
Deep sunk beneath all storms and billows, thou
Should'st not be torn :-Sleep in thy coral cave,
Lonely and unalarmed, for ever sleep,
White Galatea !-for thou wast indeed
The fairest among all the forms which left
Their haunts, the gentle air, or ocean wide,
River, or fount, or forest,-to bestow
High love on man ;-but, rather let me now
From these so witching fancies turn away,
Lest I, beguiled too far, forget the scene
Before me, bright as aught in fairy land,

Skiddaw! Eternal mountain, hast thou been
Rocked to thy slumber by the howling winds,
Or has the thunder or the lightnings blue
Scared thee to quiet?-To the sounding blast
Thou gavest answer, and when thou didst dash
The white hail in its puny rage aside,

Thou wast not dumb, nor to the rains when they
Ran trembling from thee:—me thou answerest not.

Art thou indignant then, or hear I not?
Or, like the double-visaged god who sate
Within the Roman temples, dost thou keep
High watch above the northern floods to warn
Lone ships from erring, while thy southern front
Is sealed in sleep?-Thy lofty head has long

Z

Stood up an everlasting mark to all

Who wander: haply now some wretch, whose bark
Has drifted from its path since set of sun,
Beholds thee shine, and kneeling pours his soul
In thanks to heaven, or towards his cottage home
Shouts amidst tears, or laughter sad as tears.

-And shall I, while these things may be, complain?
Never in silence as in sound thou art

A thing of grandeur; and throughout the year
Thy high protecting presence (let not this

Be forgot ever) turns aside the winds

Which else might kill the flowers of this sweet vale. London Magazine.

FOR MUSIC.

THOU art looking on the face of night, my love!
Is not yon evening star bright, my love?

Methinks it is

A world of bliss

For spirits all softness and light, my love!

This earth is so chilled with care, my dear!
Would we might wing our flight there, my dear!
For love to blaze

With the cloudless rays

It would have in a world so fair, my dear!

But my wish to visit that star, dear love!
Is vain as my other hopes are, dear love!
For my heart's wild sigh

Of idolatry

Breathes with thee like that planet afar, dear love!

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.