Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.

Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, [lies! Far down, and shining through their stillness Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd

Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play : Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.— Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely !-those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,

And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrownBut all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery

crown:

Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!Restore the dead, thou sea!

["The only public mention that I have made of Mrs Hemans," says Mr Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter regarding her, with which we have been favoured by that excellent man and distinguished poet, "was in a series of lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, having to notice very briefly the Female Poets,' I said, Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that

sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.' I gave The Treasures of the Deep' as an example; and, indeed, I know nothing in our language-of the kind and the character I mean-comparable with it, either in conception or execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding address:-The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole."

We beg to remind the author of "The World before the Flood," and "The Pelican Island," that the lectures to which he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popu larity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.]

BRING FLOWERS.

BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and
vale:

Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell-
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers,
wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

"Tis not merely

The human being's pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love

This visible nature, and this common world,

Are all too narrow."-COLERIDGE'S "Wallenstein."

[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of Wallenstein's Death, after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.]

ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,

When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd? Was not my work fulfill'd and closed below?

Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast.

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, That, melting into song her soul away, [tone? Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met, Where naught again may part what love hath bound,

Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.

There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, If, as our love, thy love is pure and true! Thero dwells my father, sinless and at rest, Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.

And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken;
There it is with us even as is our trust-

He that believes is near the holy then.

There shall each feeling, beautiful and high, Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day. Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye! There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

THE REVELLERS.

RING, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter, and a wilder strain !

They are here the fair face and the careless heart,

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.

But I met a dimly mournful glance,

In a sudden turn of the flying dance;

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!

1 Wallenstein.

And it is not well that woe should breathe

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!Ye that to thought or to grief belong,

Leave, leave the hall of song!

Ring, joyous chords!- -But who art thou
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on !-yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee-
Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again !-
But what dost thou with the revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth-
Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !-
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst

shun,

For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away!--
Back to thy home, and pray!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!

A swifter still, and a wilder strain!

And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!-
But where are the young and the lovely gone?
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown'd,