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She was like summer, with her living gladness,
Her pure, clear brow that had no shade of sadness,

Her dewy eye;
She was like summer, all lone places filling
With flowers and sunshine-joy and peace instilling

Into sad hearts, her lovely life went by;
She was like summer, even so she faded,

And earth grew lone; Oh, marvel not her brow is shaded,

She who made summer to her heart is gone!

THE LADY'S DREAM. From an old magazine, where it appeared anonymously. It is an admirable imitation of the style and sentiment of Hood, and the author, if it was not himself, ought to achieve as great a fame.

The lady in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still ;

For turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter'd and moaned,

And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up,

And gazed on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there-
And then in the pillow she buried her face

From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt

Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow and shook as she cried,

"Oh me! that awful dream!

- That weary, weary walk,

In the churchyard's dismal ground;
And those horrible things, with shady wings,

That came and fitted round,
Death, death, and nothing but death,

In every sight and sound !

“ And oh! those maidens young,

Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And cheeks without a bloom :And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride · We haste to an early tomb !

"'For the pomp and pleasure of pride,

We toil like Afric slaves,
And only to earn a home at last,

Where yonder cypress waves ;
And then they pointed—I never saw

A ground so full of graves !

6 And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt

Of such a world of woe!

** Of the hearts that daily break,

Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,

That grieve this earthly ball,
Disease and hunger, and pain, and want,

But now I dreamt of them all!

" Alas! I have walk'd through life

Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm,

And fill the burial-sod,
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls

Not unmark'd of God!

- I dress'd as the noble dress,

In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,

In many an ample fold; But I never remember'd the naked limbs

That froze with winter's cold.

“The wounds I might have heal’d!

The human sorrow and smart ! And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of thought,

As well as want of heart!”

She clasp'd her fervent hands,

And the tears began to stream;
Large and bitter and fast they fell,

Remorse was so extreme:
And yet, -oh yet, that many a dame

Would dream the Lady's Dream!

THE LAMENT.

By SHELLEY.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come and gone;
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,

I am left lone, lone.

The swallow summer comes again,
The owlet night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou.
My heart each day desires the morrow,
Sleep itself is turn'd to sorrow,
Vainly would my winter borrow

Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,

Pansies let my flowers be;
On the living grave I bear,
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.

SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS IN PRAISE OF PAN.

By FLETCHER.
Sing his praises that doth keep

Our flocks from harm,
Pan, the father of our sheep;

And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
While the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee

Thus do we sing :
Thou that keep'st us chaste and free,

As the young spring,
Ever be thy honour spoke,
From that place the morn is broke,
To that place day doth unyoke!

SONNET.

By Sir Philip SIDNEY.
Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealtb, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low;

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease :
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy beavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

AUTUMN IN SCOTLAND. A beautiful descriptive passage in the Hon. Mrs. Norton's poem The Child of the Islands. Brown Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand

Binding the harvest in a thousand sheaves; A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,

Shines on thatch'd corners and low cottage-eaves,
And gilds with cheerful light the fading leaves :
Beautiful, even here, on hill and dale;

More lovely yet, where Scotland's soil receives
The varied rays her wooded mountains hail,
With hues to which our faint and soberer tints are pale.

---

For there the scarlet rowan seems to mock

The red sea coral-berries, leaves, and all; Light swinging from the moist green shining rock

Which beds the foaming torrent's turbid fall;

And there the purple cedar, grandly tall, Lifts its crown'd head and sun-illumined stem;

And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall) Bends o'er the lake, that seems a sapphire gem Dropt from the hoary hill's gigantic diadem.

And far and wide the glorious beather blooms,

Its regal mantle o'er the mountains spread,
Wooing the bee with honey-sweet perfumes,

By many a viewless wild flower richly shed;
Up-springing 'neath the glad exulting tread

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