Clear warbling, filleth with his song
The hillside and the vale.

Then sing, sing, sing,

For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the shore, love,
When foaming billows dash;
It echoes in the thunder peal,
When vivid lightnings flash.
There is music by the shore,
In the stilly noon of night,
When the murmurs of the ocean fade
In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love,
When it hears the gushing swell,
Which, like a dream intensely soft,
Peals from the lily-bell.

There is music-music deep

In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love,

Which speaketh from the heart,
Of a sympathy in souls

That never more would part.
There is music in the note
Of the cooing turtle-dove;
There is music in the voice
Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love,
To the pure of spirit given;
And sweetest music heard on earth
But whispers that of heaven.
Oh, all is music there-

'Tis the language of the skySweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony.

Then sing, sing, sing,

For music breathes in everything.

SORROW AND SONG.

By JAMES HEDDERWICK, editor of the Glasgow Citizen.

WEEP not over poet's wrong,

Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
Ere they show their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;

From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for Beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;

'Tis but when the chords are struck
That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test
Ere it show its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp,
Gloom and silence bringeth,

Then the glowworm lights its lamp,

And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud

Draws as Daylight fainteth;

Only on the tearful cloud

God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song

And of gentle fancies.

THE HUNT.

A humorous passage, worthy of John Gilpin, in HOOD's Epping Hunt,

a poem.

BUT Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,

Nor hedge nor ditch could stay;
O'er all they went, and did the work
Of leap years in a day !

And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,

For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled

Beneath him as he sate,

He never saw a county go

At such a county rate.

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs !"
Quoth Huggins, "So I do,-
I've got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!"

Good lord! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about,

As if with stitches in the side,
That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook:

Till bump'd and gall'd-yet not where Gall,
For bumps did ever look!

YOL. VI.

G

85

And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride;
With every kick he gave a prick,
Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged, For cruel smart of spurs,

For, riding through a moor, he pitch'd His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is
He squatted all forlorn ;
And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign:
"Possession is nine points," but his
Seem'd more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points
That enter'd in his skin,

His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!

Now had a papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Although no horse he had to cross,
He might have cross'd himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;

A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went,
To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage.

Though felony, yet who would let
Another's horse alone,

Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own?

THE RECALL.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

O'ER the far blue mountains,
O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
Back to thy home.

When the bright fire shineth,
Sad looks thy place;

While the true heart pineth,
Missing thy face.

O'er the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
Back to thy home.

Music is sorrowful

Since thou wert gone;
Sisters are mourning thee-
Come to thine own!

Hark! the home-voices call,

Back to thy rest!

Come to thy father's hall,

Thy mother's breast!

O'er the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
Back to thy home!

THE POETESS.

A passage in Miss LANDON'S History of the Lyre.

I AM a woman :-tell me not of fame.

The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows where the dove would die.