Another beautiful passage from Byron's Childe Harold.

CLARENS ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above
The very Glaciers have his colours caught,
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep here lovingly: the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To wbich the steps are mountains; where the god
Is a pervading life and light,-so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,

His soft and summer breath, whose tender power
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

All things are here of him; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,

But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings

The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
And make his heart a spirit: he who knows
That tender mystery, will love the more,
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those.
For 'tis his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows

Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
Peopling it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps hath rear'd a throne.

A WOMAN CONTEMPLATING A HOUSEHOLD GOD. CROLY has written a series of poems illustrative of subjects found splendidly cut on antique gems. The following is one of them.

DOMESTIC love! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,
Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ;

And many a bird to warble on the wing,
When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

0, love of loves !—to thy white hand is given
Of earthly happiness the only key!
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,
When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine, and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed-for ever closed thy plume!

AN OLD-FASHIONED LOVE SONG. Cut from an old newspaper, where it appeared anonymously.

FAIRER than thee, beloved, .

Fairer than thee-
There is but one thing, beloved,

Fairer than thee.

Not the glad sun, beloved,

Bright though its beams—
Not the green earth, beloved,

Silver with streams-
Not the gay birds, beloved,

Happy and free:
Yet there's one thing, beloved,

Fairer than thee.

Not the clear day, beloved,

Glowing with light;
Not fairer still, beloved,

Star-crowned night.
Truth in her might, beloved,

Grand in her sway-
Truth with her eyes, beloved,

Clearer than day

Holy and pure, beloved, .

Spotless and free,
Is the one thing, beloved,

Fairer than thee.
Guard well thy soul, beloved,

Truth dwelling there,
Shall shadow forth, beloved,

Her image rare.
Then shall I deem, beloved,

That thou art she,
And there'll be nought, beloved,

Fairer than thee.

She faded, like the summer flower,
When parching sunshine burns,
And no fresh dews, no cooling shower,
Sear'd grass to greenness turns :
She faded-and I mark'd how swift
Death's shadowy mist crept o'er her,
As dark clouds o'er the bright morn drift,
But do not pass before her.

She faded day by day! at last,
No lily was more wan,
I knew that all my joy had past,
Just as her joy began.
I knew that death to her would bring
Life's peace-to last for ever!
She faded-but in heaven her spring
Of bloom shall perish never !



By SHELLEY. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,

Is lying.
Come, months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the year ;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling;

Come, months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey,
Let your light sisters play-
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.


Found in an old American Magazine.
ONCE more, thou radiant star,
Hail to those fires that nightly burn,
Heaven-kindled in thy sacred urn,
Sending their light afar.
When twilight walks the earth
And bids the virgins of the sky
Lift their celestial lamps on high,
And call the dew-drops forth.
Then comest thou, loveliest one-
The fondly sought of many eyes,
That watch and wait for thee to rise
Like Ghebers for the sun.

Love claims thee as his own ;
And well thy " tender light” accords
With the half-sigh’d, half-whisper'd words
Sacred to love alone.
His stolen interview
He may not trust to babbling day,
But when did thy mild beam betray
The tender and the true ?
And thou art toil's delight;
When day deserts the fading west,
He hails the harbinger of rest,
And home-restoring night.
Yet these inconstant be;
Love leaves thee for the yellow torch,
And casts aside, at Hymen's porch,
His last fond thought of thee.

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