They asked no clarion's voice to fire And still sweet flutes their path around, So moved they calmly to their field, Save bearing back the Spartan's shield, SONG. THE lights are fair in my father's hall, There is gold around my silken robe, And they say that gems and the broidered vest But dearer to me is one silent smile I have no home now but thy arms, L. E. L. ON A PORTRAIT, LINES SUPPOSED ΤΟ BE THAT OF NELL GWYN, BY SIR PETER LELY, IN THE POSSESSION OF R. CRACROFT, ESQ. BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl! Cast that carcanet away, Can the brilliant's lustre vie But they've wronged thee;-and I swear By the light subdued that flashes By thy lips, that more than speak,- Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms, From the depths of that blue heaven ;— 'Neath its pale, declining lid ! No, I'll not believe thy name Can be aught allied to Shame. Then let them call thee what they will, I've sworn and I'll maintain it still, (Spite of Tradition's idle din,) Thou art not-canst not be-NELL GWYN! A. A. W. TO JESSY. BY LORD BYRON. THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At ouce must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes There is a voice whose tones inspire Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath prest, There is a bosom-all my own- A mouth that smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave-or cease to beat. There are two souls whose equal flow, THE NYMPH OF THE STREAM. BY MRS. HUNTER. NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn No plant can flourish and no flower can blow;→ Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals, Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy waterfalls. Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows,— And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste ;For this the grateful muse in fancy twines Around thy urn, the rose and waving wild woodbines. And when far distant from the glowing scene Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream, To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain stream. English Minstrelsy. |