Beautiful Poetry. LA MADONNA DELL' ACQUA, By RUSKIN. In the centre of the lagoon between Venice and the mouths of the Brenta, supported on a few mouldering piles, stands a small shrine dedicated to the Madonna dell' Acqua, which the gondolier never passes without a prayer. AROUND her shrine no earthly blossoms blow, For there, in passing, pause the breezes bleak, The black prow falters through the wild seaweed- VOL. VI. B 83 Of ocean, and the gathered gold of heaven Pierce the blue, quivering night, through wreath or rent, cloud! Hectic, and wan, and moon-companioned Into the sense of heaven, when earth is bare, THE LOST ONE. By MARY HOWITT. WE meet around the board, thou art not there; And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room. What hopeless longings after thee arise! Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine; And for the sound of thy dear little feet. Alas! tears dim mine eyes, Meeting in every place some joy of thine, Or when fair children pass me in the street. Beauty was on thy cheek; and thou didst seem Thy laugh was like the inspiring breath of spring, That thrills the heart, and cannot be unfelt. The sun, the moon, the green leaves and the flowers, Were a strong joy to thee; thy spirit dwelt Oh! what had death to do with one like thee, To those that loved thee? Thou, whose tears would spring, Dreading a short day's absence, didst thou go Alone into the future world unseen, Solving each awful untried mystery, The dread unknown to know; To be where mortal traveller hath not been, Over thy young and buoyant frame had power? Hope may not mock, nor grief the heart devour. Nor they with whom thou art thy loss deplore; Thou dweller with the unseen, who hast explored The immense unknown; thou to whom death and heaven Are mysteries no more; whose soul is stored With knowledge for which man hath vainly striven; With thee beneath fair trees that cannot fade? Yet for a little while we walk in shade; Anon, by death the cloud is all dispersed ; Then o'er the hills of heaven the eternal day doth burst. THE RED-START. By Mrs. HEMANS. FROM a ruin thou art singing, By thy summer music stirr'd; Of human step or word; Though the fire be quench'd, and the feasting doneOh lonely, lonely bird! How can that flood of gladness Rush through the fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, Where dirge-notes in the breezes moan, There's many a heart, wild singer, Where Love hath left his bower: SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. A ballad, by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. SHE's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, "Ye're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God, O what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie ? O what 'll she do in heaven? She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a,' my lassie, She was beloved by a'; But an angel fell in love wi' her, Lowly there thou lies, my lassie, A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Fu' soon I follow thee, my lassie, Thou left me nought to covet ahin', I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, |