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One daughter, little Jane, had he
The silent sexton's only child ;
And when she laugh'd aloud and free,
The grave old sexton smiled.
For she within his heart had crept,
Himself he could not tell you why,
But often he had almost wept,
Because he heard her cry.
All else to him appear'd as dead,
Awaiting but the shroud and all ;
It seem'd that to himself he said,
“I soon shall dig the graves of all.”
And beast, and bome, and man, and wife,
He saw with cold, accustom'd eye;
Jane only look'd so full of life
As if that she could never die.
And when she still could hardly walk
By holding fast his wrinkled finger,
So well he loved her prattling talk,
He often from his work would linger.
Around her waist in sport he tied
The coffin-ropes for leading-strings,
And on his spade she learnt to ride,
And handled all his churchyard things.

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One day upon a baby's grave
His morning's work must Simon spend,
And Jane her seat by him must have,
And all his well-known task attend.
Soon, 'mid the herbage soft and green
The little place of rest was made,
Whence daisy-cover'd meads were seen,
And where the hawthorn cast a shade.
Old Simon, almost resting now,
With slacken'd stroke his labour plied,
And raising oft his moisten'd brow,
With longer looks his darling eyed.

Then Jane cried out in sudden glee,
“Oh, what a pretty grave is there !
It would be just a bed for me,
With room enough, and none to spare."
The father's hand let fall the spade,
His cheek grew pale, he heaved a groan;
And when the children's graves he made,
Thenceforth he always work'd alone.

TO THE CICADA.

A singularly happy translation of a poem of ANACREON will please every reader of taste by its extreme elegance.

HAPPY Cicada, perch'd on lofty branches,
Deep in the forest, cheerful as a monarch,
Tasting the dew-drops, making all the mountains

Echo thy chirping.

Thine is each treasure that the earth produces;
Thine is the freshness of each field and forest ;
Thine are the fruits, and thine are all the flowers,

Balmy spring scatters.

Husbandmen fondly dote upon thy friendship,
Knowing thee guiltless of a thought to harm them.
Thee, mortals honour, sweet and tuneful songster,

Prophet of summer.
Thee all the Muses hail a kindred being;
Thee, great Apollo owns a dear companion ;
Oh! it was he who gave that note of gladness,

Wearisome never.

Song-skilful, earth-born, mirth and music loving;
Fairy-like being, free from age and suffering ;
Passionless, and pure from earth’s defilement,

Almost a spirit.

Drunk with the dew-drop, perch'd on twig so lofty,
Noisy Cicada, o'er the wild wave sounding,
Saw-like the feet which to thy side thou pressest,

Drawing sweet music.

GOOD NIGHT.

Often before have we spoken of Mrs. Hemans, as a poetess whose fame was greater during her life than it will be hereafter, but many of whose works will become a part of British literature, to perish only with it. She excelled in short poems.

Day is past !
Stars have set their watch at last,
Founts that thro' the deep woods flow,
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now,
Flowers have shut with fading light-

Good night!

Go to rest!
Sleep sit, dove-like, on thy breast !
If within thy secret cell,
One dark form of memory dwell

,
Be it mantled from thy sight-

Good night!

Joy be tbine !
Kind looks o'er thy slumber shine!
Go, and in the spirit land
Meet thy home's long parted band,
Be their eyes all love and light-

Good night!

Peace to all !
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o'er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain streams;
Bard ! away to worlds more bright-

Good night!

BRIGHT THOUGHTS FOR DARK HOURS.

An American poet, named HOUSMAN, is the author of the following

fanciful poem.

a

I would I were a fairy, as light as falling snows,
To do whate'er my fancy bade, to wander where I}chose,
I'd visit many a pleasant spot, a merry life I'd lead,
With all of bright and beautiful to serve me at my need.
I'd never give a single thought to misery or care,
My heart should have the gladness of a wild bird in the air-
And if, perchance, a tempest should gather in the sky,
I'd crouch beneath a little bell until the cloud pass’d by.
The violet, the cowslip, the warbling little bee,
That cannot for his life withhold the music of his glee:
The butterfly, that little thing of many gorgeous dyes,
The denizen of garden realms—a pilgrim of the skies :
The starry twinkling glow-worm, that, like a drop of dew,
Sheds faintly on the trembling grass a line of emerald hue:
The daisy and the daffodil, the small gem on the lea,
Of these I'd make my playmates, and these my friends

should be.
I'd hie me to the greenwood, I'd sit me down and sing
Beneath the quiet curtain of the nightingale's soft wing!
My pillow should be rose leaves without a single thorn,
And there I'd chant my roundelay until the blush of morn.
The world is full of sorrows, on every side I see
Shadow instead of sunlight, and grief instead of glee,
Or, if I hear the trumpet-voice of pleasure cleave the sky,
The mournful echo, sadness, is certain to reply;
0, I would I were a fairy, as light as falling snows,
To do whate'er my fancy bade, to wander where I chose :
I'd visit many a sunny spot, and far away

I'd flee, Where crime and folly seldom come, beneath the forest tree.

THE COLUMN OF LUXOR.

From the new volume of poems, entitled The Lump of Gold, just published by CHARLES MACKAY.

OH! grey-headed column of Luxor !

Oh? ancient and eloquent stone !
That standest supreme in thy sadness,

'Mid splendour and glare—but alone!
They brought thee with pomp and rejoicing,

A trophy to pamper their fame;
With sound of the drum and the trumpet,

And salvos, and shouts of acclaim :
Oh! preach to this change-loving people

From depths of thy memories vast,
And, proud as they are of the present,

Tell them the past !
Yet, no, it were idle to show them

The waifs and the shipwrecks of time;
They know that the mighty have perish'd,

Laid low in their folly or crime.
They know that the kingdoms and empires
That
grew
in the

ages

of old
Were swept from their places like footmarks

On sands where the ocean has roll'd.
Tradition itself has forgot them,

Their deeds and their names disappear,
Or live but in falsified echoes,

Vexing the ear.

.

*

And yet, only twenty short summers

Have bloom'd since thou camest to France.
Come tell them the scenes thou hast witness'd,

To warn them of change and of chance!
They bore theema pledge of their triumph-

From shores where their fathers had bled ;
They raised thee 'mid thunder of cannon,

And tricolour'd banners outspread.
The king, with his courtiers and children,

Look'd round him, exulting and proud,
And said, “I am firm! I am happy!

Mine is the crowd."

61

VOL. IV.

F

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