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They wave empurpled, or, in rainbows dyed,
Drape his vermillion couch outstretching wide,
As streams the royal ensign from the mast,

When clears the ship for fight, and hope of peace hath pass'd.

Pale though the reeking city's dusky pall,
Slants the descending beam, as loath to fall;
Not so the cottage, in its tranquil nook,
Catches the wakening dawn's reluctant look;
Blest home of innocence and thought serene,
Rich o'er its roof, embower'd, floods the sheen,
And, thence reflected, chases from yon hill
The loitering shades that mar the daylight still.

The lambs are awake, the birds sing in the brake,
And the babe in his cradle is lisping;

Man mingles his voice with the winds that rejoice
O'er the waters their light breath is crisping;
Every blade yields a song, as the breeze sweeps along,
Every insect in sunshine is chanting,

And the bell's iron tongue the deep question hath rung, "In this hour shall devotion be wanting?"

All is life-all is light-all is wakefulness round,
'Tis the morn with her own living diadem bound,
And the earth pours all sounds in one anthem above,
To God's shadow-the emblem of life and of love.

New suns o'er every moment fling,
Blushing, their first-born ray;

New worlds to life each moment spring,
To catch the gushing day,

The heavens laugh out with a joyous voice

Each infant star, awaking,

Hears thousand stars rejoice,

And into music breaking,

Pours along the listening skies,

Melody that never dies;

New suns, new worlds, in swift succession born,

Each hour Thou lookest upon,

To Thee is a new dawn,

Eternity to Thee one bright, rich, teeming morn.

Mount then, ye birds! roll, waves-your vapoury sail
Expand, ye mists-blend, voices-scents, exhale-

Sigh earth, enwrapt-man, lift thy soul with awe-
All things, adore-fulfil your nature's law!

Mount to your God-mount upward-higher still,
The sunshine bathes you, kindled by his will,
Waft meetly man's oblation to his throne;
Where is't? above? below?-his power doth fill
All space-prevading, absolute, alone.

And thou, bright day, whose earliest accents rise
To Him who poured thee o'er the purpling skies,
Thou that to Him, time's brief dominion past,
Must trembling render full account at last,
Night, from whose womb thou camest, recalleth thee,
To mingle with the past eternity.

A DEATH SCENE.

By Miss BRONTE, sister of the Author of Jane Eyre.

O DAY! he cannot die,
When thou so fair art shining!

O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining.

He cannot leave thee now,

While fresh west winds are blowing,
And all around his youthful brow
Thy cheerful light is glowing!

Edward, awake, awake

Thy golden evening gleams

Warm and bright on Arden's lake—

Arouse thee from thy dreams!

Beside thee, on my knee,

My dearest friend! I pray

That thou, to cross the eternal sea,

Wouldst yet one hour delay.

I hear its billows roar-
I see them foaming high;

But no glimpse of a further shore
Has blest my straining eye.

Believe not what they urge
Of Eden isles beyond;

Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
To thy own native land.

It is not death, but pain

That struggles in thy breast;

Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again—
I cannot let thee rest!

One long look, that sore reproved me
For the woe I could not bear-
One mute look of suffering moved me
To repent my useless prayer;

And, with sudden check, the heaving
Of distraction pass'd away;
Not a sign of further grieving
Stirr'd my soul that awful day.

Paled at length, the sweet sun setting;
Sunk to peare the twilight breeze;
Summer dews fell softly wetting
Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary,
Weigh'd beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not-but they changed not-
Never moved, and never closed;

Troubled still, and still they ranged not-
Wander'd not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying-
Stoop'd, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing-
So I knew that he was dead.

THE DREAMS OF OLD.

By MARY ANNe Browne.

THE dreams of old have faded,
Their wondrous spells are o'er;
We cannot be persuaded

To try their power once more.
Our wisdom now is scorning

What our fathers deem'd a boon;
The world's bright clouds of morning
Have melted in her noon.

Yet for the parted glory

They shed on mortal mould,

Think gently of the fantasy

That framed the dreams of old.

Where are the fairy legions

That peopled vale and grove,
And overspread earth's regions
With strange ethereal love?
The flowers their essence haunted
Are blooming gaily still,
But Time hath disenchanted
The meadow and the rill.
There's not a child who listens,

When their magic tale is told,

Who does not know they were but dreams,
Those radiant dreams of old!

Where is the high aspiring
That the star-watcher knew,
Born of the pure desiring
For the holy and the true?
The faith that never halted
Heaven's starry page to read,
And framed a dream, exalted
Unto a prophet's creed.

Who now would seek the planets,
The future to unfold,

Who, as the grave astrologer,
Revive the dreams of old?

VOL. VI.

E

84

To the beggar, who, leaving his wallet, shall sit,
And, before me, see drawn up the curtain of doom,
(That, at last, he may keep me a place in the pit,)
Let us gaily dispose of the cost of my tomb.

What boots it to me, that my name shall appear

On a stone, by some scholar decipher'd and spelt?
For the flowers which, they say, shall be strewn on my bier,
'Twere better, methinks, could their fragrance be felt.
Posterity!-that which, perchance, may not be—

Be warned that you never need hope to illume
My grave with your torch: dear philosophers, see,
How I toss thro' the window the cost of my tomb!

ALEXANDER'S FEAST;

OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

An Ode in honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By Joнn Dryden. 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son :

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

Hiş valiant peers were placed around;

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound. (So should desert in arms be crown'd:)

The lovely Thais by his side,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,

In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.

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