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Oh! come at this hour, love! the daylight is gone,
And the heavens weep dew on the flowers; .
And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan,
Through the shade of the eglantine bowers :
For, the moon is asleep on her pillow of clouds,
And her curtain is drawn in the sky;
And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds,
Falls faint on the ear-like a sigh!
The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright
For a heart that has suffered like mine;
And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light,

...e., especuve autnors. Yet half a century ago, a large proportion of them would have been received with favour, and have conferred repute. The public is usually correct in its judgment: few recent poetical productions are addressed to the heart; and the mere act of dealing with a subject in verse, although it may have the aid of knowledge and fancy, is insufficient to render a poem popular. It would, however, be easy to select from the numerous poetical productions to which we refer, and which have been consigned to unmerited oblivion, specimens of merit sufficient to form a valuable and interesting volume; and the Editor who undertakes such a task, will render good service to literature. That which Mr. Sergeant Talfourd describes as the “freezing effect of the scientific spirit of the age,” has had its depressing influence upon the best and greatest of our Poets: it has completely destroyed the ambitious hopes of those who were seeking after distinction. We trust, nevertheless, that a time will come when in poetry, as in art, some portion of celebrity may be attained by all who deserve it. If we must place Mr. Hervey somewhat below the great “makers,” whose names precede his in this volume, we must class him considerably above the host of minor Poets, of whom our age has been so amazingly fertile. Some of his productions, indeed,

HERVEY.

A TWILIGHT LANDSCAPE.

Oh! come at this hour, love! the daylight is gone,
And the heavens weep dew on the flowers;
And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan,
Through the shade of the eglantine bowers:
For, the moon is asleep on her pillow of clouds,
And her curtain is drawn in the sky;
And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds,
Falls faint on the ear—like a sigh!
The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright
For a heart that has suffered like mine;
And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light,
The birds, as they mingled their music of joy,
And the roses that smiled in the beam,
Would but tell us of feelings for ever gone by,
And of hopes that have passed like a dream!

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And the moonlight, pale spirit! would speak of the time
When we wandered beneath its soft gleam,
Along the green meadows, when life was in prime,
And worshipped its face in the stream:
When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path as bright,
And as cloudless, to fancy's young eye,
As the star-spangled course of that phantom of light,
Along the blue depths of the sky!
Then come in this hour, love! when twilight has hung
Its shadowy mantle around;
And no sound, save the murmurs that breathe from thy tongue,
Or thy footfall—scarce heard on the ground !
Shall steal on the silence, to waken a fear,
When the sun that is gone, with its heat,
Has left on the cheek of all nature a tear,
Then, hearts that are broken should meet !

THE CON VICT 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 pennant 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 !
Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily, aloft in the shrouds !
Onwards 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,

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 that are parted and broken for ever !
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;
While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

I AM ALL ALONE.

I AM all alone!—and the visions that play
Round life's young days, have passed away;
And the songs are hushed that gladness sings,
And the hopes that I cherished have made them wings;
And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone,

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