You were a MOTHER! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You with laughing eye Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. O delight!

A second time to be a Mother

Without the Mother's bitter groans : Another thought and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks, or tones, O'er the growing sense to roll,

The Mother of your Infant's soul !

The ANGEL of the Earth, who while he guides
His chariot planet round the goal of Day,
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,
A moment turn'd his awful Face away;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet,
New influences in your being rose,

Blest intuitions and communions fleet,

With living Nature in her joys and woes!
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty !

O beautiful! O Nature's Child!

Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of TELL!

O Lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure,
Thence learnt you that heroic measure!

ESTEESE

To the NIGHTINGALE.

By GEORGE DYER:

Sweet Songstress, that unseen, unknown,.
Dost pour the softly-varied strain,

Why dost thou wander still alone,
Why to the silent woods complain?

Oft have I linger'd in the grove,

To hear thy melting, soothing song; To me it seem'd a song of love,

Nor could I think the darkness long.

"But oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?

Why still repeat the lonesome lay?

"Those notes, that smooth the brow of night,

66

Might kindle bright the face of day."

Thus have I cried, but cried in vain,
For soon the songstress of the grove,
As though the morn awaken'd pain,
More faintly breath'd her song of love..

But though she shuns my wistful sight,
So softly, sweetly does she sing,
I deem her not the bird of night,
Bur hail the poet of the spring..

OMAR at the TOMB of AZZA.

By GEORGE GOODWIN.

Roses! alas in vain ye

bloom!

In vain your rubied blossoms glow, Azza is dead! and o'er her tomb,

The night-wind glides in murmurs low.

Almond in vain thy drops of light,
Hang quivering on the nectar'd gale,
Dim are those gems, that once so bright,
With melting radiance charm'd the vale;

For me in vain the ambrosial showers,
Pregnant with liquid life descend;
For me in vain the panting flowers,
Reviv'd, their fragrant bosoms bend.

In vain for me the Tamarinds wave, Their shadowy branches o'er yon hill; Azza is dead! and from her grave,

A thousand flowers fresh sweets distil.