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The green and glittering Ivy, and all plants-
All hues and forms delicious that adorn

The brumal reign, and often waken hopes
Refreshing. Let eternal verdure clothe
The silent fields where rest the honour'd dead,
While mute Affliction comes, and lingers round
With slow, soft step, and pensive pause,
And tear, all holy.

and sigh

THE MOTHER.

From a passage in Mrs. NORTON's poem The Undying One.

SHE stood beside the waters, but her eyes
Were not upon the river, nor the skies,
Nor on the fading things of earth. Her soul
Was rapt in bitterness-and evening stole
Chill o'er her form, while yet with nerveless hand
She sought to throw her burden from the land.
'Twas pitiful to see her strive in vain,

Rise sternly up, then melt to love again;
With horrible energy, and lip compress'd,
Hold forth her child-then strain it to her breast
Convulsively, as if some gentle thought
Of all its helpless beauty first was brought
Into her 'wilder'd mind-the soft faint smiles,
Whose charm the mother of her tears beguiles,
Which speak not aught of mirth or merriment,
But of full confidence, and deep content,
And ignorance of woe:-the murmur'd sounds
Which were to her a language, rise up now-
And, like a torrent bursting from its bounds,

Swell in her heart, and shoot across her brow,
Oh! she who plans its death in her despair,
Hath tended it with fond and watchful care;
Hath borne it wearily for many a mile,
Repaid with one fond glance, or gentle smile:
Hath watch'd through long dark nights with patient love,
When some light sickness struck her nestling dove;
And yearn'd to bear its pain, when that meek eye
Turn'd on her, with appealing agony!

Look on her now!-that faint and feverish start
Hath waken'd all the mother in her heart:
That feeble cry hath thrill'd her very frame :-
Was it for murder such a soft heart came ?
She will not do it.-Fool! the spirit there
Is stronger far than love-it is despair!
Mothers alone may read that mother's woe:
Her heart may break-but she will strike the blow.
Once more she pauses; bending o'er its face,
Calm and unconscious in its timid grace:
Then murmurs to it by the chilly wave,
Ere one strong effort dooms it to the grave.

THE POET'S PORTION.

Contributed to the Athenæum of 1830.

WHAT is a mine-a treasury-a dower-
A magic talisman of mighty power?
A poet's wide possession of the earth:
He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth
Before its budding-ere the first red streaks-
And winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.
Look if his dawn be not ere other men's
Twenty bright flushes-ere another kens
The first of sunlight is abroad, he sees
Its gold election of the topmost trees,
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn,
When do his fruits delay? When doth his corn
Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf
Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf
The flagging poppies lose their ardent flame.
No sweet there is, no pleasure you can name,
But he will sip it first-before the lees :-
'Tis his to taste rich honey ere the bees
Are busy with the brooms: he may forestal
June's rosy advent for his coronal,
Before expectance buds upon the bough,
Turning his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.
Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed,
Before its leafy presence; for, indeed,

Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies,
And each thing, perishable, fades and dies,
Except in thought; but his rich thinkings be
Like overflows of immortality-

So that what there is steep'd shall perish never,
But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever!

A COTTAGE HOME.

A passage in T. K. HERVEY'S Devil's Walk, a satirical poem of great humour, dashed with occasional deep pathos and exquisite poetry. He stood beside a cottage lone,

And listen'd to a lute,

One summer eve when the breeze was gone,

And the nightingale was mute!

The moon was watching on the hill,

The stream was staid, and the maples still,
To hear a lover's suit,

That-half a vow, and half a prayer,-
Spoke less of hope than of despair,
And rose into the calm soft air,
As sweet and low

As he had heard,-oh, woe! oh, woe!—
The flutes of angels long ago!—

"By every hope that earthward clings,
By faith that mounts on angel wings,
By dreams that make night shadows bright,
And truths that turn our day to night;
By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear;
By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year;
By all the strains that fancy sings,
And pangs that time so surely brings:
For joy or grief, for hope or fear;
For all hereafter as for here;
In peace or strife, in storm or shine,
My soul is wedded unto thine.”

And for its soft and sole reply,
A murmur and a sweet low sigh,
But not a spoken word;

And yet they made the waters start

Into his eyes who heard

For they told of a most loving heart,

In a voice like that of a bird!

Of a heart that loved,-though it loved in vain,A grieving-and yet not a pain!

A love that took an early root,

And had an early doom,

Like trees that never grow to fruit,
And early shed their bloom!

Of vanish'd hopes and happy smiles
All lost for evermore-

Like ships that sailed for sunny isles,
But never came to shore!

A flower, that in its withering,
Preserved its fragrance long;
A spirit that had lost its wing,
But still retain'd its song!
A joy that could not all be lost,
A comfort in despair!

And the devil fled like a lated ghost

That snuffs the purer air:

For he felt how lovers' own sweet breath

Surrounds them like a spell;

And he knew that love-as "strong as death"

Is far too strong for hell:

And from the country of its birth

Brings thoughts-in sorrow or in mirth—

That sanctify the earth

Like angels, earthward tempest driven,

And waiting to return to heaven!

BALLAD.

Found in an old number of The Athenæum.

THE sun looks down on all his flowers
The faded and the fair;

The sun hath gilt the crested east,
And shineth here and there.

He peeps into all casements

And chambers every one:
What news of bonny Margaret,
Thou bright and merry sun?

Hast thou seen her at her lattice,
Where she welcomes thee with smiles,
That make the world more lightsome
Than all thy sunny miles.
There's a linnet at her window,
And fresh flowers by the pane,

But thou'lt know her by her merry look,
That welcomes thee again.

O sun, thou hast a throne in heaven,
And robes of kingly hue,

But most I envy thy far sight
To look the wide world through:
Thou peepest in all casements
And chambers every one:
What news of bonny Margaret's,
Thou bright and merry sun?

-Alas for bonny Margaret's,

Since e'er it oped to sin!
There's tears hung forth on gossamers,
And faded flowers within;

I sought her with a glance of gold

To bid her forth and shine,

But alas! her eyes were pale and dim,
And gave no light to mine.

Her hair adown her shoulders white
Hung wild with strange neglect,

And all her snowy linen fine

Had lost her hand's respect;

And then she took her jewels up,

And cast them on the floor :"Lie there where all my tears do lie,

For you have made them pour;

Your light was of the devil's eyes,

And falsely dazzled mine:

And now the sun looks down from heaven,

I cannot bear his shine.

The moon so fair and stars so bright

Reprove my tarnish'd fame;

O nothing but the dark of death
Can hide me from my shame!

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