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AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cowered close from view
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She combed her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasped her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn
Came forth the rival light of morn.

The lark's song dropt, now loud, now hush
The gold-spink answered from the bush,-
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Called from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush and brake,
Instinct with soul of song, awake;-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling 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.
London Magazine.


THE shore was reefed with rocks, whose rugged sides
Were venturous footing for the fowler's step:
They were shaped out in wild and curious forms,
Above, all jagged and broken, but below

The waves had worn the shaggy points away;
For there they rave incessantly. When last
I past along the beach, it was at eve,

A summer's eve, stormy, but beautiful ;
I looked in silence, on the western sky,
The rest was hidden from my view; but there
The day had spent its glory. One rich light
Broke through the shadow of the tempest's wing,
While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged,
Caught every moment warmer hues, until
'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king,
In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun-god sought
The blue depths of the sea ;—the waters yet
Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam
Yet floated on the billows, while the wind
Murmured at times like to an angry child,
Who sobs even in his slumber. 'Mid the rocks
That rose stern barriers to the rebel waves,
There was one spot less rugged than the rest:
Some firs had taken root there, and waved o'er
The entrance of a cave, where Grecian bards
Had said some Sea-maid dwelt, and decked the place
With ocean treasures, for the walls were bright
With crystal spar: In sooth, it seemed just formed
For some fair daughter of the main; at noon,
Here she might bind her hair with shells, and wake
Her golden harp. But now a legend's told
Of human love and sorrow-it is called
The Cavern of the Pirate's Love:-her fate
Is soon and sadly told: she followed one,
A lawless wanderer of the deep, for whom
She left her father's balls. A little while
She might know happiness-it is the heart
'That gives the colour to our destiny.

But lovely things are fleeting-blushes, sighs,

The hours of youth, smiles, hopes, and minstrel-dreams,
Spring days and blossoms, music's tones, are all
Most fugitive; and swifter still than these
Will love dissolve into forgetfulness.

She was deserted. For awhile this cave
Was her sad refuge; for awhile the rocks
Echoed her wild complainings. I can deem
How she would gaze upon the sea, and think
Each passing cloud her lover's bark, 'till, hope
Sickened of its own vanity, and life

Sickened with hope; she passed and left a tale,
A melancholy tale, just fit to tell

On such an eve as this, when sky and sea
Are sleeping in the mute and mournful calm
Of passion sunk to rest.
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.



Ан, why to my too feeling mind
Is this my native place so dear,
As if it had some chain to bind

In lasting links my being here?

I need not ask! 'twas this calm scene
Witnessed ere yet a stranger! I
Had mingled with tumultuous men
My purest grief-my purest joy.

For 'twas this spot on my young cheek
That saw the first emotion rise,

That saw its little wo to speak,

The first tear dim my infant eyes.



BESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept,
A widowed mother sat and wept
O'er years of love gone by;

And as the sobs thick-gathering came, She murmured her dead husband's name 'Mid that sad lullaby.

Well might that lullaby be sad,
For not one single friend she had
On this cold-hearted earth;
The sea will not give back its prey-
And they were wrapt in foreign clay
Who gave the orphan birth.

Steadfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,
She gazed upon the bosom
And fair brow of her sleeping son,-
'O merciful heaven! when I am gone
'Thine is this earthly blossom!'

While thus she sat,-a sunbeam broke
Into the room;-the babe awoke,
And from his cradle smiled!

Ah me! what kindling smiles met there!
I know not whether was more fair,
The mother or her child!

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,
And to her bosom leapt,--

All tears at once were swept away,
And said a face as bright as day,-
'Forgive me! that I wept!'

Sufferings there are from nature sprung,
Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue
May venture to declare;
But this as holy-writ is sure,

'The griefs she bids us here endure
'She can herself repair!'

Blackwood's Magazine.



IN glowing youth, he stood beside
His native stream, and saw it glide
Showing each gem beneath its tide,
Calm as though nought could break its rest,
Reflecting heaven on its breast,
And seeming, in its flow, to be
Like candour, peace and piety.

When life began its brilliant dream,
His heart was like his native stream;
The wave-shrined gems could scarcely seem
Less hidden than each wish it knew ;
Its life flowed on as calmly too :
And heaven shielded it from sin,
To see itself reflected in.

He stood beside that stream again,
When years had fled in strife and pain;
He looked for its calm course in vain,-
For storms profaned its peaceful flow,
And clouds o'erhung its crystal brow:-
And turning then, he sighed to deem
His heart still like his native stream.
New Monthly Magazine.

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