A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. I SAW her in her morn of hope, in life's delicious spring, A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the wing; Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky. I see her yet so fancy deems-her soft, unbraided hair, Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her forehead fair; Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning smile that play'd, In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's self had made! And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her way, Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd would ever know decay;— She had no winter in her note, but evermore would sing (What darker season had she proved ?) of spring-of only spring! Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so bright, The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should blight ; A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 213 Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant brow o'ercast, And make her beauty-like her bliss-a shadow of the past! Years came and went-we met again,-but what a change was there! The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of despair; The fitful flushing of the cheek,—the lips compress'd and thin, The clench of the attenuate hands,-proclaim'd the strife within! Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying power had given Beauty, of more than mortal birth, breathed of heaven ; -a spell that And as she bent, resign'd and meek, beneath the chastening blow, With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd to glow! No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour was spoken, For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted pledges broken; Like Him who for his murderers pray'd, she wept, but did not chide, And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died! Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond woman's truth; Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth: [and lost, And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most! THE LAST SWALLOW. BY RICHARD HOWITT. AWAY, away, why dost thou linger here, Thy coming was in lovelier skies-thy wing, And from the sky of beauty darkness lours: Thy coming was with hope, but thou didst stay 'Midst melancholy thoughts, that dwell upon decay. Blessed are they who have before thee fled! Soaring to beautiful worlds on wings sublime; Then fade into the grave-and go without a tear. BRING BACK THE CHAIN! BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. It was an aged man, who stood "Bring back the chain, whose weight so long Bow'd down my stubborn knee. "Then I have stretch'd my yearning arms, That freedom ye, at length, bestow, "The boundless hope-the spring of joy, Felt when the spirit's strength is young; Which slavery only can alloy, The mockeries to which I clung, 216 BRING BACK THE CHAIN. The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray "Bring back the chain! its clanking sound "Bring back the chain! that I may think 'Tis that which weighs my spirit so: And, gazing on each galling link, Dream as I dreamt-of bitter woe! "Freedom! though doom'd in pain to live, |