BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

IT is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise;

And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remained a solitude,
But for some pastoral people, native there,
Who from the Elysian, clear, and sunny air
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold;
Simple and generous, innocent and bold.
The blue Ægean girds this chosen home
With ever changing sound, and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;
And all the winds, wandering along the shore,
Undulate with the undulating tide.

There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide;
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
As clear as elemental diamond;

And all the place is peopled with sweet airs;
The light clear element which the Isle wears

Is heavy with the scent of lemon flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,
And falls upon the eye-lids like faint sleep;
And from the moss, violets and jonquils peep,
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain,
Till you might faint with that delicious pain;
And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,
With that deep music is in unison,
Which is a soul within the soul:-they seem
Like echoes of an antenatal dream.

It is a favored spot. Famine, or Blight,
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake never light
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they
Sail onward far upon their fatal way;

The winged storms chaunting their thunder psalm,
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality.

TO A CHILD.

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?

What boots it, who, with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or Squire or hind?
For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;
Thy shyness swiftly from me running; —
"Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far a-field thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half-spoken ;—

I feel thee pulling at my gown,—

Of right good will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh, and wrestle too,―
A mimic warfare with me waging!

To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging!

The wilding rose,—sweet as thyself,—

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ;—

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,

When thou shall sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

Well, let it be! Through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show ;—

And thou a thing of hope and change.
New Monthly Magazine.

VIOLA.

A FRAGMENT.

SHE had a form; but I might talk till night,
Young as the sun is now upou our watch,
Ere I had told its beauties !-It was slight,
Even as yon willow, and like its soft stem,
Fell into thousand motions, and all lovely!
But for her cheek,-look on those streaks of rose
Tinting the white clouds o'er us! Now and then
A flush of deeper crimson lighting up

Their wreaths, like wind kissed lilies of the vale ;-
And now and then a long, rich, ebon tinge,
Floating between them! There I think I see

Still, though she's in her grave—the cheek I loved, With the dark tress that veiled it. When I sat Beneath her eye, I felt its splendour on me Like a bright spell.—'Tis not the diamond's ray, Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful In that ascending sun, or in this world, Can bring me back its image;-'twas a soul That has no portraiture on earth; a beam As we have heard of Angels, where no lips Are wanted to give utterance to the thought; Her eye was radiant thought. Yet when her voice Spoke to me, or, at evening o'er her lute, Breathed some old melody, or closed the day With her due Hymn to the Virgin, I have turned, Even from the glory of her eye, to weep, With sudden keenness of delight. Those tears, On earth, I weep no more.-She's in the grave! New Times.

TO THE IVY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! how could fancy crown with thee
In ancient days, the God of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;

Where song's full notes once pealed around, But now are heard no more!

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where Kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains,
Around the Victor's tent;

Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the Victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past ;-
Where through the halls of glory gone
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;-

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,
On classic plains dost mantling spread,
And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead;

Deserted palaces of Kings,

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,-
And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime

Beneath a blue, Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!

And reared midst crags and clouds 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down,
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed, and left no trace;
But thou art there!-Thy foliage bright,

Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,-
Thou that will climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round grandeur's marble halls,— The vivid hues by painting thrown, Rich o'er the glowing walls,The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes,

In sculptured beauty waving fair ;— These, perish all-and what remains ? Thou thou alone art there!

'Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see;

The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength,

Days pass, thou Ivy never sere,

And all is thine at length.

Literary Gazette.