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THE Northern Star

Sailed o'er the Bar,

Bound to the Baltic Sea:

In the morning gray

She stretched away

'Twas a weary day to me.

'And many an hour,

In sleet and shower,

By the light-house rock I stray,

And watch till dark

For the winged bark

Of him that's far way.

'The Church-yard's bound

I wander round,

Among the grassy graves;

But all I hear

Is the North wind drear,

And all I see, the waves!'

Oh roam not there,

Thou mourner fair,

Nor pour the fruitless tear!

Thy plaint of wo

Is all too low

The dead, they cannot hear.

The Northern Star

Is set afar,

Set in the raging sea;

And the billows spread

O'er the sandy bed,

That holds thy love from thee!

Newcastle Courant.



UPON her cheek the eye may trace
The lineaments of heavenly grace;
A tender blush of rosy light,

That wins and then detains the sight.
It is not brilliant ;-no, nor gay;—
It is not pleasure's dazzling ray ;-
It does not wildly flash and burn,
Like rich wines in a sparry bowl;
But softly beams and shines, as roll
Sweet waters from a crystal urn.
It makes, albeit he strive, in vain,
The gazer turn to gaze again.
It seems to speak in pensive tone,
Of childhood's happier moments flown;
Of loss of hopes too dearly prized,
Dreams of delight unrealized,

And all the warring fears that wring
A woman's heart in love's first spring!

On her smooth brow her chestnut hair
Descends, and makes a twilight there!
As softly shadowed and as sweet,
As that when light and darkness meet.
On that pure tablet Grief hath laid
Her hand, but not one furrow made;
On that unsullied page as yet,
No impress of her seal is set.

From those rich tresses to the view
That dark eye takes a darker hue;
Full-glassy-brilliant-there the mind
Sits like a Deity enshrined;

Within its pupil works a spell

Which fills the mind, we know not why,

With scenes on which our thoughts would dwell
Of vanished hours of-bliss gone by.

We gaze and grieve, and still we gaze,

Upon that soul-appealing token;

And mourn, that Time can never raise
One flower like that his touch has broken.

Leeds Intelligencer.

B. B. W.



CREATURE of air and light!
Emblem of that which may not fade or die,
Wilt thou not speed thy flight

To chase the south-wind through the sunny sky?
What lures thee thus to stay

With Silence and Decay,

Fixed on the wreck of dull Mortality?

The thoughts once chambered there,
Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone!
Will the dust tell us where

They that have burst the prison-house are flown?
Rise, nursling of the Day,

If thou wouldst trace their way !-

Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanished bird,

By the forsaken nest and broken shell?
Far thence, he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous 'midst the woods to dwell.
Thou, of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn !-

Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruined cell.
Literary Gazette.



'Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?' "AND where is he?" Not by the side

Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend! That form beloved he marks no more; Those scenes admired no more shall see ;Those scenes are lovely as before,

And she as fair,--but where is he?

No, no, the radiance is not dim,

That used to gild his favourite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still;
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his garden be,
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, where is he?'

His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now the proud display?
His-riches, honours, pleasures, all

Desire could frame--but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by admiring bands,

Seemed proudly strong,--and where is he?

The church-yard bears an added stone, The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone, And death displays his banner there; The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been, no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he? New European Magazine.


Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land
of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King has come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our Lord the


'An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,— For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din,
Of life, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

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