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A tale of less affright,

And tempered with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, "Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping earth !
With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy, lift her spirit, joy attune her voice :
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

GRADUAL DAY, OFF PALERMO.

From an Old Magazine, where it appeared anonymously.

FROM out the purple portals of the East
Peers the first dawn of day upon the world,
With dim uncertain light. Huge clouds still warp
The base of fiery Strombolo,-and-Night,
With her black waving pennons lingers yet
Far in the western hemisphere-long trains
Of tremulous mist curtain the deep blue breast
Of Adria's waveless ocean; some repose,
In folds fantastically graceful, on
The glassy waters;-others slowly wind
Their way in silvery circuitings to heaven,
And, as in mockery of the glance that strives
To trace their airy wanderings,-dissolve,
Invisibly, whilst yet the gazer's eye
Strains its intensest nerves.-Light breaks,

With giant stride upon the earth and breathes
The breath of life into the pulseless veins

Of slumber-locked creation. Yon white clouds-
That seem to rise like mountains from the sea,
Garbed with untrodden snows, suddenly grow
Radiant with streaks of gold:-a deeper blush
Of crimson now pervades them, and the sun,
Lifting his orb above the wave, looks out
In glory on the world.

Nature around,

Hath wakened from her trance, and shaking off
The night dews from her beauty, stands revealed
In rainbow tinted loveliness to man!

HEAVEN.

By BARRY CORNWALL.

O HEAVEN!-O beautiful and boundless sky!
Upon whose breast stars and pale planets lie,
Unnumbered and innumerable, ever

Mocking with brightning eyes man's vain endeavour!—
Thou radiant wilderness through which the moon
Moves like a spirit, without voice or tune
Accompanied, or song or choral shout,
Save what the universal spheres send out
For aye,-inaudible, though vast and deep,—
Thou world of worlds, within whose arms the sun
Awakens; and, when his bright task is done,
Like a reposing child lies down to sleep,
Amongst thy golden bowers!

O gentle Heaven!

Art thou indeed the home,-the happy shore,
Where creatures wearied of this earth are driven,-
Where Hate is not,-where Envy cannot soar,

And nought save unimaginable Love,

And tenderest Peace (a white and winged dove),
And beauty and perennial bloom are seen,
And angels breathing in elysian air

Divinest music, and young shapes, more fair

Than Houris pacing soft through pathways ever green?

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

By PHINEAS FLETCHER, the cousin of Fletcher the dramatist, who was educated at Eton and Cambridge, and beneficed in Norfolk in 1621. The principal of his poetical works is the Purple Island, an allegorical description of man, composed in Spencer's manner.

THRICE, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns :
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep,
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep :
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dy'd:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses ;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent,
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease:

Pleas'd, and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,

While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;

His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face :

Never his humble house or state torment him :

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.

THE PLEASANT PROSPECT.

From the German of Rückert, by W. R. EVANS.

FROM God's hand came the world in beauty,
And from a handful of its mould

God made the man with understanding,
Its beauty further to unfold.

Not only was that spot in Eden
Of all most beautiful and fair,
Where the first pair of lovers settled,
And made a bed of flowers rare :

All earth has not become less lovely-
Now gardens, fields, and houses stand,
By mankind built and planted o'er it,
That all might be an Edenland.

On earth we find no fairer regions
Than those with cultivation spread,
By industry and men's hands planted,
By humankind inhabited.

The prospect would become less pleasant,
Were boats not floating on the tide,
And were no rustic cottage standing
In valley and on mountain side.

HOPE.

A fine passage in CAMPBELL'S Pleasures of Hope. AUSPICIOUS Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe: Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower;

There as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring:
What viewless forms th' Eolian organ play,

And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away.
Angel of life thy glittering wings explore

Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore.
Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields

His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields;
Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,
Where Andes, giant of the western star,

With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd,

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.
Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles;
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow,
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;
And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar,
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form !
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay;
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep:
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul:
His native hills that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and broomwood blossom'd vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the lov'd shore he sighed to leave behind;
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps with many a sigh his children dear!

SONNET.

By SHAKSPEAre.

LIKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

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