Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And, lo! the rural revels are begun,
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth-shaven green
Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they
Who now are in their graves

Kept up the Whitsun dance;

And that another hour, and they must fall
Like those who went before, and sleep as still
Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign
To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy!
In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,-the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,—

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;

And through the storm and dangers' thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever and for evermore,

The star!-the Star of Bethlehem!

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean:
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,

Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.

Faint with old age and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies:

These does she guard secure in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.
Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane:

Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne;
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried,
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.
But soon inured to alphabetic toils,

Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew:

And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And, as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;
Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears;
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;

Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life.

From Childhood,

FRAGMENT.

The pious man,

In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms
Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith
Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields
Of ether, where the day is never veil'd
With intervening vapours; and looks down
Serene upon the troubled sea, that hides

The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;
But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd,
The glaring sunbeam plays.

THIS noble author, whose poetry has shed a lustre upon his name, which the mere circumstance of rank could never have conferred, and whose degree as an English poet is only second to that of Shakspeare and Milton, was born at Dover, on the 22d of January, 1788. The early years of the futare Childe Harold were spent at Aberdeen. In consequence of a slight malformation in one of his feet, he was allowed, during boyhood, to run among the neighbouring mountains; and while he was thus acquiring health, he was at the same time Imbibing, from the romantic scenery around him, that love of the sublime and the picturesque, which afterwards characterized his poetry. From Aberdeen he was sent to the school of Harrow, and there he was more distinguished by a restless desire of action and dexterity in athletic sports, than by diligence and scholastic acquirements. He was afterwards entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, where his career was of a similar description. Here, indeed, his tame bear was of more account in his eyes than his tutor, for he was training it up, as he said, for a Fellowship. At the age of nineteen he emancipated himself from a University education, which he always heartily despised, and soon afterwards published his Hours of Idleness; a boyish work, which however exhibited some glimpses of his future excellence. The reception which awaited it, and the fearful retaliation with which he awed his critics into respect, are too well known to be particularized. After this Lord Byron went abroad, and soon ceased to be remembered. But even then, he was employed in that pilgrimage upon which he was so soon to found an imperishable name; and in 1812, the two first Cantos of his Childe Harold made their appearance. A work of such originality and power, from one whose previous labours had been held up to ridicule and contempt, burst upon the literary world like a sudden blaze of sunshine; and the task of criticism was lost in admiration. By a single effort the noble bard had placed himself by the side of the most illustrious poets of his day but even this was only a prelude to those further exertions by which he was to attain an undisputed superiority. These works, produced in rapid succession, are so well known and appreciated, that it would be equally superfluous to enumerate or to criticise them. At London, Venice, Switzerland, Ravenna, Pisa, and during the course of his erratic progress, his pen was continually active, and threw off with a rapidity almost incredible those deathless productions, which the world continued to hail with fresh wonder and delight; 30 that when he had only reached his thirty-fifth year he had already produced as much as might have filled a poetical life extended to old age.

:

Having done so much for immortality as a poet, a new career was opened for Lord Byron, which was to throw, if possible, a still brighter halo over his character than all he had hitherto achieved. This was, the generous struggle for the liberation of down-trodden and afflicted Greece, into which he entered with the resolution and energy of a life-and-death devotedness. Other poets, indeed, regarded that unhappy land as their native home for was it not the source of their inspiration?-but none except Byron had realized the generous idea of taking a share in the contest, and perilling their lives upon the event. He embarked at Leghorn for Greece in August, 1823, and on arriving at the field of action he was welcomed with enthusiasm by all parties, as the promise and pledge of their national deliverance. But the spirit of dissension that raged among the Greek chieftains, and the avarice and insubordination of the insurgent soldiers, not only rendered his lordship's efforts of little avail, but harassed his spirit until his health was completely broken, and he died at Missolonghi on the 19th of April, 1824.

Such was the end of this modern Tyrtæus-the lame poet who fought so brave. ly, and wrote so eloquently, in behalf of the oppressed. His life had been too often reckless and culpable, and his poetry had too often adorned the cause of error and sensuality. But his confirmed manhood was calming the wildness of youth, and reflection was establishing within his heart a purer faith and better principles; and although he did not live to illustrate them, it was only because he sacrificed life itself in the cause of humanity. And what repentance could be more sincere; what reparation more complete?

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-not my loveYet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove To meet his passion-but it would not be.

I felt I feel-love dwells with-with the free.

I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of-Dost thou love?' and burn to answer 'No!'
Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,

And hide from one-perhaps another there.
He takes the hand I give not-nor withhold-

Its pulse nor check'd-nor quicken'd-calmly cold:
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.