Who deem thy verdant wreath the badge of fame,——
And while they listen to her loud acclaim,

Life's purple tide with quicker motion warms!
Full oft, alas! the hero and the bard

Find thee their only meed-their sole reward;
And like the rainbow in a summer shower,
Or gaudy poppy, of fugacious bloom,

'Tis thine to flourish for a transient hour,
Then, wither'd, sink in dark oblivion's womb;-
Thy greenest leaves, thy rich perennial flower,
Bud in thy votary's life, but blossom on his tomb.
Alex. Balfour (1767 — 1829).

A SONNET UPON SONNETS.

Scorn not the Sonnet, critic! you have frowned
Mindless of its just honours: with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's1 wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso2 sound;
Camoëns soothed with it an exile's grief:
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante1 bound
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,

5

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

1 A distinguished Italian lyric poet, born at Arezzo, 1304. For many years he was enamoured of an Italian lady named Laura, but to whom he was never married.

2 Torquato Tasso, the great Italian epic poet and rival of Ariosto, born at Sorrento, 1544. His father, Bernardo Tasso, was also a celebrated epic and lyric poet.

3 The most distinguished of Portuguese poets, born at Lisbon, 1524. He was banished to the Moluccas for having written a satire on the abuses of the government in India.

4 The greatest of all the Italian poets, born at Florence, 1265.

5 A celebrated poet, born in London, 1553. His chief work is the Faerie Queene.

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains-alas! too few.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

FANCY IN NUBIBUS,

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS.

O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily-persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go

From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!
Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight,

Be that blind bard1 who, on the Chian2 strand
By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light
Beheld the Iliad3 and the Odyssey 3

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

S. T. Coleridge (1772-1834).

PROVIDENCE.

Just as a mother with sweet pious face

Yearns towards her little children from her seat,

Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,

Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet;

1 Homer, the greatest name in Greek literature, and the greatest epic poet of all time.

2 Chios (modern Scio), an island in the Ægean Sea, about 7 miles from the coast of Asia Minor. It contends for the honour of having given birth to Homer.

3 The two great compositions of the poet.

And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences,
She learns their feelings and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,

And whether stern or smiling, loves them still,—
So Providence for us, high, infinite,

Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,
And ev'n if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because 'twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or, in denying, grants.

Leigh Hunt (1784 — 1859).

ON THE APPROACH OF DEATH.

Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,—
Yon landscape smile,―yon golden harvest grow;
Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar,
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless
While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just-Thou gav'st the bitter cup;
I bow to Thy behest, and drink it up.

H. K. White (1785-1806).

BEN NEVIS.

We climb, we pant, we pause; again we climb:
Frown not, stern mountain, nor around thee throw
Thy mist and storm, but look with cloudless brow

O'er all thy giant progeny sublime;

While toiling up the immeasurable height

We climb, we pant, we pause: the thickening gloom
Hath pall'd us in the darkness of the tomb:
And on the hard-won summit sound nor sight
Salutes us, save the snow and chilling blast,
And all the guardian fiends of Winter's throne.
Such too is life-ten thousand perils past,
Our fame is vapour, and our mirth a groan.
But patience; till the veil be rent away,
And on our vision flash celestial day.

John Keats (1796 — 1821).

THE MOON'S MILD RAY.

There is a magic in the moon's mild ray,—
What time she softly climbs the evening sky,
And sitteth with the silent stars on high,—
That charms the pang of earth-born grief away.
I raise my eye to the blue depths above,

And worship Him whose power, pervading space,
Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace,
Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love.
Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high,

I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has marked my brow, Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye.

O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide,

Shine on my eve of life-shine soft, and long abide.

John H. Bryant.

LYRIC POETRY. THE ODE.

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

Note.-Cecilia is the patron saint of music, and she has been falsely regarded as the inventress of the organ. She is said to have suffered martyrdom in 230.

1. Descend, ye nine! descend and sing;

The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly pleasing strain

Let the warbling lute complain :
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

While in more lengthened notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise

And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away

In a dying, dying fall.

2. By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;

Or, when the soul is pressed with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds: