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The
sea,

the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressid,

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapp'd his colours round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And onemo'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded ’midst Italian flowers

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !

They that with smiles lit up the hall

, And cheer'd with song the hearthAlas! for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, O earth!

HOPE.

JOHN CLARE.
AH, smiling cherub! cheating Hope, adieu !

No more I'll listen to your pleasing themes ; No more your flattering scenes with joy renew,

For ah! I've found them all delusive dreams; Yes, mere delusions all—therefore, adieu !

No more shall you this aching heart beguile; No more your fleeting joys will I pursue,

That mock'd my sorrows when they seem'd to smile. And flatter'd tales that never will be true :

Tales only told to aggravate distress, And make me at my fate the more repine ;

By whispering joys I never can possess, And painting scenes that never can be mine.

TO AUTUMN.

JOHN CLARE.

COME, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds and storms,

And falling leaves, and pastures lost in flowers; A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,

More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours;
Who, in her blooming uniform of green,

Delights with samely and continued joy :
But give me, Autumn, where thy hand hath been;

For there is wildness that can never cloy:
The russet hue of fields left bare, and all
The tints of leaves and blossoms ere they fall.

In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,
Wild music softens in thy hollow winds;

And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms, That's more than dear to melancholy minds.

THE FEAST OF LIFE.
L. E. L. (LÆTI

STITIA E. LANDON.)
I BID thee to my mystic Feast;
Each one thou lov'st is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around;
But beauty from which bloom has fled ;

And music echoes from the walls ;
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears ;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is fill'd-it is of tears.
What, turn'șt thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine
In vain-the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life;
But life in its reality!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

MRS. HEMANS.

The stately Homes of England !

How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees

O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound,

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream. The

merry Homes of England !
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light !
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England !

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime

Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England !

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep

Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair Homes of England !

Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd

To guard each hallow'd wall !
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God.

GO TO THE FIELDS.

J. A. LANGFORD,

IF thou art sorrowful and sad,

And thought no comfort yields ;
Go leave the busy, bustling world,

And ramble in the fields.
Bless’d Nature will have sympathy
Both with thy sufferings and thee.

Have friends proved false; doth fortune frown;

And poverty depress ?.
Ne'er, ne'er with unavailing grief

Increase thy wretchedness.
Go to the fields, and Nature will
With pleasant thoughts thy bosom fill.
If thou have placed thy youthful trust

Upon some maiden's love,
And she, regardless of her troth,

Should false and faithless prove;
Ne'er mope nor pine. In pleasures holy,
Drive away thy melancholy.
If thou have seen thy cherish'd hopes,

Like bubbles, burst to air;
Ne'er let thy manly courage sink

To cowardly despair.
Go list the lark's ethereal lay,
'Twill soothe thy gloomy thoughts away.
Kind Nature solace offers all;

Gives joy in storm or calm;
For ev'ry pain a pleasure has ;

For ev'ry wound, a balm.
A mightier physician she
For heart-ills than philosophy.
Go to the fields, and Nature woo,

No matter what thy mood;
The light heart will be lighter made,

The sorrowful imbued
With joyous thoughts. The simplest flower
Has o'er the soul a magic power.
Alone, communing with thyself,

Or with congenial friends;
If joy expands thy soaring soul,

Or woe thy bosom rends;
Go to the fields, and thou wilt find
Thy woe subdued, thy joy refined.

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