And he is bent in worship, as that touch,
That soft light touch, were ecstasy too much.
He is just turned from that bewildering face
To the fair arm that holds the magic vase—
The purple liquor is just sparkling up—
The youth has pledged his heart's truth in that cup!
Literary Gazette.
I CANNOT stain this snowy leaf
Without a sigh of pensive grief!
As musing on my days gone by,
And those that still before me lie,
I read a mournful emblem here,
That few could read without a tear!
For, as my musing eyes I cast,
Upon the pages that are past,
I search them all, but search in vain
To find even one without a stain !
But what has been, is not to be,-
The happy future yet is free;
Far as my forward eye can go,
The future still is white as snow;
So free from stains, so free from cares,
The tainted past it half repairs!
It is a goodly sight! but oh!
Too well within this heart I know
That this fair future, at the last,
Shall be itself the tainted past.
Blackwood's Magazine.
THOUGH from his native land afar
His step the Briton bends;
Still there his country's glories are,
And are to him as friends.
There they protect him ;-there they seem
A mantle o'er him spread,-
A guardian spell—a sacred beam,
A radiance 'round his head.
In every clime, at every hour,
He walks in England's fame;
Safe in the shelter of her power,
And honoured in her name.
Or borne o'er ocean, as the keels
Divide the sparkling foam,
That boundless main, he proudly feels,
Is yet a Briton's home.
For to the world's remotest shore,
Old Albion's deeds are known;
And till its white waves roll no more,
Shall ocean seem her own.
Then must the Briton, though he strays
O'er distant seas or earth,
Find reason yet to love and praise
The land that gave him birth.
The Council of Ten.
THE WHITE HORSE OF WHARFDALE.
O SISTERS, hasten we on our way,
The Wharf is wide and strong!
Our father alone in his hall will say,
'My daughters linger long.'
Yet, tarry awhile in the yellow moonlight,
And each shall see her own true knight,
For now in her boat of an acorn-shell
The fairy queen may be,
She dives in a water-spider's bell
To keep her revelry:
We'll drop a thistle's beard in the tide
"Twill serve for bridles when fairies ride;
And she who shall first her White Horse see
Shall be the heiress of Bethmeslie.'
Then Jeannette spoke with her eyes of light-
6 O if I had fairy power,
I would change this elm to a gallant knight,
And this grey rock to a bower:
Our dwelling should be behind a screen
Of blossoming alders and laurustine;
Our hives should tempt the wild bees all,
And the swallows love our eaves,
For the eglantine should tuft our wall,
And cover their nests with leaves:
The spindle's wool should lie unspun,
And our lambs lie safe in the summer-sun,
While the merrry bells ring for my knight and me,
Farewell to the halls of Bethmeslie!'
Then Annot shook her golden hair
'If I had power and will,
These rocks should change to marble rare,
And the oaks should leave the hill,
To build a dome of prouder height
Than ever yet rose in the morning light;
And every one of these slender reeds
Should be a page in green,
To lead and deck my berry-brown steeds,
And call my greyhounds in ;
These lillies all should be ladies gay,
To weave the pearls for my silk array,
And none but a princely knight should see
Smiles in the lady of Bethmeslie."
Then softly said their sister May-
"I would ask neither spell nor wand;
For better I prize this white rose-spray
Plucked by my father's hand:
And little I heed the knight to see
Who seeks the heiress of Bethmeslie!
Yet would I give one of these roses white
If the fairy queen would ride
Safe o'er this flood ere the dead of night,
And bear us by her side.
And then with her wing let her lift the latch
Of my father's gate, and his slumbers watch,
And touch his eyes with her glow-worm-gleams
Till he sees and blesses us in his dreams.'
The night-winds howled o'er Bolton Strid,*
The flood was dark and drear,
But through it swam the Fairy-queen's steed
The lady May to bear;
And that milk-white steed was seen to skim
Like a flash of the moon on the water's brim.
The morning came, and the winds were tame,
The flood slept on the shore;
But the sisters three of Bethmeslie
Returned to its hall no more.
*Coleridge and Rogers have made this Strid famous, and the White Horse is still expected to rise on the Wharf near it, when travellers are drowning.
Now under the shade of its ruined wall
A thorn grows lonely, bare, and tall.
And there is a weak and weeping weed
Seems on its rugged stem to feed:
The shepherds sit in the green recess,
And call them Pride and Idleness,
But there is the root of a white rose-tree
Still blooms at the gate of Bethmeslie.
Woe to the maid that on morn of May
Shall see that White Horse rise!
The hope of her heart shall pass away
As the foam of his nostril flies,
Unless to her father's knee she brings
The white rose-tree's first offerings.-
There is no dew from summer-skies
Has power like the drop from a father's eyes;
And if on her cheek that tear of bliss
Shall mingle with his holy kiss,
The bloom of her cheek shall blessed be
As the Fairy's rose of Bethmeslie.
European Magazine.
ORNAMENTED WITH A BUST OF THOMSON.
To teach old Time an equal pace,
Should be the Artist's care;
But every Season speeds his race,
If Thomson's Lyre is there!
Fond workman !-Humbler minstrelsy
Might regulate thy chime;
The bard of immortality
Need take no note of Time.
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