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Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Tak’st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song ?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL.

The laverock loves the dewy light,

The bee the balmy foxglove fair; The shepherd loves the glowing morn,

When song and sunshine fill the air: But I love best the summer moon,

With all her stars, pure streaming still ; For then, in light and love I meet

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.

The violets lay their blossoms low,

Beneath her white foot, on the plain; Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,

Of her superior presence fain. O might I clasp her to my heart, And of her ripe lips have my

will ! For loath to woo, and long to win,

Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,

O’er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Refused to set our heads aboon :

Ye might have heard our beating hearts,

Our mixing breaths,—all was so still, Till morning's light shone on her locks,

Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.

Wert thou an idol all of gold,

Had I the eye of worldish care,I could not think thee half so sweet.

Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,

This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,Thine

every wish of joy and love, My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

O! My love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run:
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and fears ;
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood :
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;
Or lingered ’mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose:
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free,-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

0, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower! 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit from fortune's tree; And sweeter still, to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine; A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower :
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;

And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,-
I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that's not divine !

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,-
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast :
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind !

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high :
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free,-
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon

horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark! the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud :
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free,
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

LEIGH Hunt is the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, and was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October the 19th, 1784. He, as well as Coleridge and Lamb, received his early education at Christ's Hospital, and chiefly under the same grammar-master ; and, like Lamb, he was prevented from going to the University (on the Christ's Hospital foundation, it is understood to be a preparatory step to holy orders) by an impediment in his speech—which, however, he had the good fortune to overcome. At school, as in after life, he was remarkable for exuberance of animal spirits, and for passionate attachment to his friends,-a feeling, also, which years have not diminished; but he evinced little care for study, except when the exercises were in verse, when he would "give up” double the quantity demanded from him. His prose themes (he has so told us among other interesting facts) were generally so bad, that the master used to crumple them in his hand, and throw them to the boys for their amusement. Mr. Hunt has been an ardent though never an ungenerous, political partisan, and has suffered in almost every possible way for the advocacy of opinions, which, whether right or wrong, he has lived to see in a great measure tri. umph. He is not the only early struggler for “ Reform,” who has been left by Reformers in power, to be recompensed by his own feelings.

The acquaintance of Mr. Hunt and Lord Byron began in prison, where Mr. Hunt was confined for the publication of an article in the “Examiner,” which he then conducted. It was pronounced to be a libel on the Prince Regent ;—and originated in his sympathy with the sufferings of the people of Ireland. To the history of their after intercourse we have not space to refer. Time has pretty nearly satisfied the world that Mr. Hunt by no means overdrew the picture of the noble Bard. The leading feature in Mr. Hunt's character is a love of truth. This was unpalatable to Lord Byron, and, for a time also, to the public. Animal spirits,—a power of receiving delight from the commonest every-day objects, as well as from remote ones,—and a sort of luxurious natural piety, (so to speak), are the prevailing influences of his writings. His friend, Hazlitt, used to say of him, in allusion to his spirits, and to his familystock (which is from the West Indies), that he had “ tropical blood in his veins."

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