A COUNTRY WEDDING.

OH! there is music in the bells,

From yonder noisy steeple pealing, That sweetly o'er the spirit swells,

And wakes the deepest chords of feeling!

It is not that this twilight hour

Blends softly with their melting one; Theirs is a deeper, holier power,

Whose echo's in the heart alone.

There's music in that merry voice-
The voice of peasants, wild and high,
That bids the listener's soul rejoice,
And share in all their revelry.

It is not that those sounds proclaim
Some boastful conqueror's vain parade;
They swell not now the pomp of fame,
They hail no gorgeous cavalcade.

But oh! they bear a mightier charm
Than shouts of triumph can express!
They spring from hearts with feeling warm,
Each voice a voice of happiness.

There's an o'erflowing tide of gladness,
To night, in all we hear or see;
A moment's passing dream of madness—
The heart's delirious jubilee.

Who recks amid a life like this,

Of future grief, or toil, or pain? To-morrow shall dissolve the bliss, And care and reason wake again.

And may it be that yonder chime,
Which spoke to-day of hearts delighted,
May sadly tell, in after time,

That death those hearts has disunited?

It may be but away, away!

Forebodings dark, and dreams of sorrow;
Let mirth and music reign to-day,

And reason's voice be heard to-morrow.

I would not, with most sage advice,
Dispel this momentary fever;
For, oh! the world were paradise,
Could such delirium last for ever.
Etonian.

SONNET,

TO AILSA ROCK.

BY JOHN KEATS.

HEARKEN, thou craggy ocean pyramid!

Give answer from thy voice, the sea fowls' screams,
When were thy thunders mantled in huge streams?
When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid?
How long is't since the mighty Power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?-
Sleep on the lap of thunder or sun-beams,
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid!

Thou answerest not, for thou art dead asleep;
Thy life is but two dread eternities;

The last in air, the former in the deep,

First with the whales, last with the eagle skies ;— Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,-Another cannot bow thy giant size.

TO A GIRL THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

THY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays,

So beautiful approve thee,

So winning, light, are all thy ways,

I cannot choose but love thee:
Thy balmy breath upon my brow
Is like the summer air,

As o'er my cheek thou leanest now
To plant a soft kiss there.

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound
Between the child and woman;
And thoughts and feelings more profound,
And other years are coming;
And thou shalt be more deeply fair,
More precious to the heart;
But never can'st thou be again,
That lovely thing thou art!

And youth shall pass, with all the brood
Of fancy-fed affection;

And care shall come with womanhood,
And 'waken cold reflection;

Thou'll learn to toil, and watch, and weep,
O'er pleasures unreturning,

Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep
Unto the cares of morning.

Nay, say not so! nor cloud the sun
Of joyous expectation,
Ordained to bless the little one,

The freshling of creation!

Nor doubt that HE, who now doth feed

Her early lamp with gladness,

Will be her present help in need,

Her comforter in sadness.

Smile on, then, little winsome thing,
All rich in nature's measure;
Thou hast within thy heart a spring
Of self-renewing pleasure;
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill
Of mirth, till time shall end it;
'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will,
And who shall reprehend it?
Knight's Quarterly Magazine.

W.

LOVE.

BY R. SOUTHEY, ESQ.

THEY sin who tell us love can die;→
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ;-
Earthly these passions as of earth,

They perish when they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,-

Its holy flame for ever burneth,—

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest;

It here is tried and purified,

And hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,

Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of wo, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!

TO A SISTER.

BY W. READ, ESQ.

THE Soft gale of summer, though past,
Will breathe of the rose it loved last;
Thus divided by land and by sea,
My soul whispers fondly of thee.

And to me thou art now as a star,
In the blue depths of heaven afar;
On which, from the gloom of my lot,
I can gaze till my griefs are forgot.

And my spirit full oft when it turns
From the cold hearted crowd which it spurns,
Confesses with pain, yet with pride,

It hath found but One like thee beside.

I

may err-and have erred,-for a mind
That finds not repose-nor can find-
All helmless and havenless tost,
Like a wreck on the ocean-is lost.

But oh! when most wild or most weak,
Let me think of the tear on thy cheek,-
And, as one from a serpent would start,
My soul and her madness shall part.

I once sighed for the wreath that is wove
Round the brow of the blest in their love;
And I burned for the raptures that steal
Through those hearts which are felt for, and feel;

I once hoped the proud laurel should bloom,
Ever green on my temple, or tomb,—

And I thought round this rude harp of mine,
An amaranth leaf might entwine.