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TO A DAISY ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
By E. H. BURRINGTON.
I pause and wonder whether earth or sky
Keeps thee so beautiful to human eye.
And serious as a mourner—who could make
Too like the likeness of a bride to take
Thou never couldst in holier beauty wake
Who sleeps below was truthful while he lived,
If I were sure an angel ever grieved,
THE FALL OF NINEVEH. The conclusion of EDWIN ATHERSTONE's fine epic poem with this
The work was done.
When from the ground the millions rose, behold!
Awe-struck, and sad, the gathered nations gazed ;
As through forest vast,
One man alone,
Throughout the night was heard the voice of woe :
Day dawned at length;
Nine days, and nights,
On the broad summits of the southern hills,
At deep night,
Day rose ; but dark
Eve passed ; and night-a pitchy blackness-fell;
Tow'rds break of day
THE POWER OF THE BARDS. This spirited ballad is taken from a volume of American poems, by P. P. COOKE.
WISDOM, and pomp, and valour,
And love and martial glory-
Of England's elder story.
If thou wonld'st pierce those shadows
Dark on her life of old,
With music sweet and bold.
The darksome way along,
With joyous harp and song.
To greet us everywhere-
To stir the sunny air.
White on the narrow sea ;
We see the royal Rufus
Go out the chase to leadWat Tyrrel's flying arrow
The dead king's flying steed. We go with gallant Henry,
Stealing to Woodstock bower, To meet bis gentle mistress,
In twilight's starry hour. We see Blondel and Richard,
We hear the lays they sing; We mark the dames adjudging
Betwixt the bard and king. We join the iron barons,
Doing that famous deedWringing the great old charter
From John at Runnymede.
We ride with Harry Monmouth, .
On Shrewsbury's bloody bounds; We hear the fat knight's moral,
On Percy Hotspur's wounds. We mark the banner'd roses
The red rose, and the white, And Crookback's barbed charger
Foaming in Barnet fight.
We see bluff Harry Tudor,
To royal Windsor ride,
A palfrey at his side.
And prancingly go forth,
At stately Kenilworth. We join the ruder revels,
Under the greenwood tree, Where outlaw songs are chanted,
And cans clink merrily.
We join the curtal friar,
And doughty Robin Hood, And Scathelock, and the Miller,
At feast in green Sherwood.
We greet Maid Marian bringing :
The collops of the deer, And pitchers of metheglin
To crown the woodland cheer.
We lie down with the robbers
At coming of the dark, We rise with their uprising,
At singing of the lark,
And, blending with his matins,
We hear the abbey chimesThe chimes of the stately abbeys
Of the proud priestly times.
And owe we not these visions
Fresh to the natural eyeThis presence in old story
To the good art and high ?—
The high art of the poet,
The maker of the lays ? Doth not his magic lead us
Back to the ancient days ?
For evermore be honour'd
The voices sweet and bold, That thus can charm the shadows
From the true life of old.