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They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen,
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye!-ye are changed since ye met me last;
A shade of earth has been round you cast!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
Ye smile!-but your smile hath a dimness yet-
-Oh! what have ye look'd on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!

There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay,
No faint remembrance of dull decay.

There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!

-Are they gone?-is their mirth from the green hills
-Ye have look'd on Death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to the earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race!
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from amongst you in silence down.
They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!

-But I know of a world where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!

pass'd?

Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer,-farewell, farewell!

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore,

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.
1 go where the loved who have left you dwell,

And the flowers are not Death's ;-fare ye well, farewell!

F. H.

A LONDON SPRING.

Or all seasons the season of Spring is my favourite, and of all places the neighbourhood of London is the place in which I best love to enjoy it. It is impossible, I believe, for any one to know how pleasant an English Spring may be, if he has never happened to spend that season in London and its environs. While the inhabitants of other parts of the kingdom are cringing over their fires, or creeping out in their wintry habiliments, the Londoners are enjoying an early summer. Their country villas are gay with flowers; their meadows are as green as the eye can desire; their hedgerows are full of bud and bloom. It is a curious reflection, that they are thus enabled to beat the country people at their own game; but so it is. The empire of fashion, we know, is speedily extended. A few days will enable a country milliner, dress-maker, or tailor, to transport the most exquisite novelties from London to the remotest parts of the kingdom. The bonnet that attracted all eyes and won all hearts in Bond-street on Wednesday, may grace the head of some belle at the Land's End on the following Sunday. But of the garb of Nature it may be said that no power can enable the inhabitants of the country thus speedily to clothe their landscapes in the bright liveries every where visible around the metropolis. They must wait patiently till the hour of their revivification comes.

I am no Londoner myself, yet I have felt like one during occasional Spring visits to the busy world; and the days thus added to existence were some of the sweetest in my life. Never at any time did the meadows look so green, the aspect of Nature so beautiful, as when from time to time, a few days generally intervening, I marked her progress in excursions from London to the neighbouring country. The rapidity with which vegetation appeared to advance, the new creations every where taking place, beheld in contrast with the eternal sameness of our city dwellings, -all this gave me a greater relish for the country than I had ever experienced before.

They, indeed, are not the most observing of mortals who expect to find the lovers of Nature among country residents. From experience I have learned to look for them in "populous cities." The gentlemen of the Lakes may smile, and whisper "Grub-street;" but sure I am, that few of those who spend their lives in the midst of rural beauty know any thing of the deep delight that fills a Londoner's heart, and dances in his eye, when, after a week of ceaseless toil, he catches a glimpse of his rural villa at Hampstead,-when, after long familiarity with the dingy and murky atmosphere of the metropolis, his eye rests upon the short green turf, the scattered trees, and the undulating hill,-lovely in themselves, loveliest of all when we consider how near their refreshing beauties are brought to the ken of the inhabitants of this mighty city. Yes! smile as you please, gentlemen of the Lakes! you know not much of this. You that talk in raptures of childish purity and heavenly intercourses-that think you can look directly from your own lakes and mountains into the mansions of the blest-you know not what it is for a man that has spent his long day toiling for no unworthy purpose, in the heat and turmoil of London, who has seen in that "mighty heart" something to hate, but something to pity, to pardon, and to love,you know not what it is for such a man, after doing what he can to make that world better, to go and repose himself in the pleasant shades

of his country dwelling. How is it possible that such a man should view what he there sees of Nature with a dull and stupid eye? He may be too busy to write sonnets; but depend upon it he has a poetical spirit within him. He carries into his retirement a daily portion of rational concern in the interests of society. He has the hopes, the fears, the thoughts, and purposes of a man among men. This is the food upon which sense, talent, public spirit, and soundness of intellect have ever been nourished. And he is a good man too, full of kind projects, mild and just designs, yet not avenging the disappointments his benevolence may have met with in one quarter by callous misanthropy in another. I say such a man as this will love the country the better for his love of society. He is the man

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-And let no one scoff when I speak of country within a very few miles of Temple-bar. What! are aristocrats to deny us the credit of enjoying the country, because we have it not in solitary lordly enjoyment? Are we to see no beauty in our flowers and trees, the meadow, and the hill behind our dwelling, because our front windows present to our view many edifices like our own-in other words, because our fellowcreatures have a fellow-sentiment, and come like us to breathe untainted air, without any of that troublesome fastidiousness which makes children quarrel with their pudding because it is not pie?

But Spring is pleasant in London also. To say nothing of our more equivocal sources of amusement, our plays, our exhibitions, our various resorts of fashion and gaiety, there is something very exhilarating in a London morning's walk in Spring. You are sure to meet with some country friend or other; one, perhaps, whom you had not seen since your childish years, and never might have met again but for the overwhelming attractions of this "resort and mart of all the earth." And this is also the season of London benevolence. Every society formed for the relief of suffering humanity is holding its meetings; and our excellent and gentle-minded friends, the Quakers, are abroad, pouring in upon us, to remind us of our debts of charity, and open our hearts and purses to the relief of our brethren. A true member of the Society of Friends may be regarded as a second conscience on these occasions. The very sight of these gentle beings, who seem to have stepped into a world with which they have no fellowship, to remind us of our duties, has a happy influence on the mind. It may be feeling, no doubt-it may be fancy; but this apparition of Friends always makes me breathe more cautiously, walk more circumspectly. How is it possible to look at the rigid simplicity of their costume, and not repress the rising desire to make one's self the proud possessor of some new and fashionably indispensable article of personal expenditure? When we think, too, that so many pure feet are treading our polluted ways, it touches the heart, and makes us anxious at least to do what we can to put away evil from their walk. Primitive times-primitive feelings thoughts that claim kindred with Heaven, gather about us. Well, peace be with the Quakers! and as long as London remains, so long may they continue their annual visitations.

I will mention but one more among the sources of attraction with which the metropolis is filled at this season of the year; and that is so

far from being peculiar to the Spring, that I am doubtful whether it has any place in my record of its pleasures. I have been, however, particularly struck by the appearance of some individuals among the groups collected round the itinerant musicians, who are to be met with about the streets of London; and I believe, much of what has thus interested me is to be ascribed to the influx of strangers,-consequently, is more remarkable in the Spring than at any other time. A genuine Londoner, high or low, has a sort of pride in showing his superiority to these attractions: he will rarely allow himself to be struck, pleased, or affected by common sights or sounds, while walking along the busy and crowded mart. He rather wishes it to be understood that he has something better to do than to give way to the feelings of nature at these times. Consequently, with the exception of here and there an individual whom affliction may have placed above or below the sense of degradation, you will find these groups generally composed of people who come to London they hardly know why, and look as if they would be away from thence did they but know how. When the beautiful air of Rousseau's Dream, or a German, or Irish, or Scotch melody, has been played by one of those sweet-toned barrel-organs which we meet with at different stations, it is really an affecting sight to watch the countenances of the listeners, as they linger and linger, unwilling to leave the region enlivened or hallowed by these beautiful sounds. I have speculated, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, on the variety of associations which this one strain may be awakening in the minds of different individuals. Mr. Wordsworth's little poem, "At the corner of Wood-street," is probably as natural as it is touching. In some hearts, perhaps, there may be less of tender feeling than of remorse-and in that one word how much have we included! There is the remorse of the boy, lightly thought of by hard and callous natures, but no small and trifling burthen to him who carries it-of the boy, I say, who some time ago left a pure and happy home, with an unsullied conscience, and feels that he has taken into his mind images and thoughts of evil which he dreamt not of before-who recollects the days of generous feeling, the season of young devotion, and feels that he now sees but the utmost "skirts of glory, and far off adores ;"—the remorse of the female, who has fallen a victim to the arts of seduction, and would fain return and live ;-and the stronger and deeper anguish of the aged sinner, who has outlived those passions which led him to the commission of crime, and now feels a sort of infantine longing after the scenes in which he once lived happy and virtuous. It is possible, also, that among those who stand within those charmed circles of sound, there may be minds of a higher cast, young poets who have been entrapped into the fatal error of making the Muse a pander to courtly authority, who have tainted the Castalian spring by a mixture of the waters of corruption;-these few natural notes are enough to make them scorn their worse than Egyptian bondage, and abjure, for a moment, all the gloss and glitter which Art has thrown over the face of society-other hearts, other feelings.Beautiful and salutary is the transient developement of natural emotion which takes place in the minds of the gay and young who come to London for enjoyment's sake, and leave it full of its pleasures without sharing in its pollutions. Even these are reminded of things worth remembering, and feel themselves the better for the strain. To them

"they bring a thought, like balm,
Of Home, and Love, and nearer ties
Of Friend and Neighbour, and the calm
Of undistracted sympathies."

If such should now be passing "a Spring in London," perhaps they will feel for themselves what I have imperfectly described.

B.

DAVID.

ALONE Judea's sovereign seeks

His chamber at the gate,

And tears fall fast from his royal cheeks,
He weeps his offspring's fate.

He weeps for Absalom his son

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Oh, Absalom! would for thee

I had died on the battlefield Joab hath won

Oh! would I had died for thee."

There is silence in the palace hall,
There is grief on every face,

And the lightest step from the marble wall
In echoes the ear may trace.

All move by token, look, or sign—
Hush'd is the pomp of state-

And the gilded rooms made for mirth and wine
Leok sad and desolate.

The monarch grieves his favourite son—
"Oh, Absalom! would for thee

I had died on the battlefield Joab hath won-
Oh! would I had died for thee!"

No victor's shout was heard that day,

No train of triumph borne;

But the warriors in silence march'd on their way

Nor sounded trump or horn.

Joab their chief hath sought the king,

Secluded at the gate,

Where in garb of woe, and in suffering,

He melancholy sate.

Now hear, O Israel's monarch, hear!

What all thy people say,

They saved thee and thine from the rebel spear,

In the heat of battle-fray

They cry, In vain their blood they pour'—

They witness with despair,

That thou grievest the loss of the rebels more

Than thy subjects perish'd there.

To their dwellings they go in shame;

Thou, king, art left alone;

And the evil that threatens thy house and name

Will overwhelm thy throne.

Forget, O king, thy ill-timed woes,

The hour is now full late.'

And the king put on, as he mournful arose,

The purple of his state.

He is gone heart-sick to the hall—

He bids his people come,

And they shout-but their shout is a funeral call

The knell of Absalom!

I.

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