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TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY.
0, Holy Spirit! oft when eve
Hath slowly o'er the western sky
Of gold and crimson's richest dye,
The murmuring of the grove thy voice And heaven above, and earth beneath,
In thee seemed to rejoice.
Sweet visions then, that sleep by day,
Thy magic wand hath made mine own, As brilliant as the clouds that play
Around the sun's descending throne; And I have striven in many a song
To pay my homage at thy shrine :A worthless offering, for a throng
Of joys, by thee made mine.
What though the idle wreath would fade
By weak, though willing fingers twined, Soon gathered to oblivion's shade;
Not less the task would soothe my mind. Inspired by thee, I ceased to pine,
Nor thought on aught that crossed my bliss, And borne to other worlds of thine,
Forgot the pangs of this.
But this was all in earlier days,
When boyhood's hopes were wild and high, And eaglet-like, I fixed my gaze
Where glory's sun blazed through the sky; But fate and circumstance forbade
The noble, though presumptuous flight; Those hopes are blasted and decayed
By disappointment's blight.
My soul is daring now, as then,
Though fate denies its strong desire Still, still, I hear the voice within,
The stirring voice that cries aspire !
In dying guilt's distempered ear,
His crimes, like ghosts, appear.
And, aye, some demon in my sight
Displays what wreaths for others bloom, The fame that gilds their life with light,
The halo that surrounds their tomb; * And gaze, presumptuous fool ! he cries,
• Unhonoured-blest thou ne'er shalt be “But pine for ever, there to rise
"Where springs no flower for thee.'
Oh, Poesy! thou too hast now
Withdrawn thy wonted influence,
To renovate my aching sense.
In swift succession, bright and fair ;
Thou show'st me but Despair.
Whenever, now, I seek the bowers,
Where fancy led my steps to thee,
The cold reality I see.
of thine illumines more, Which once could guide my spirit well
O’er every ill to soar.
By all the intense love of thee
Which fires my soul, and thrills my frame !
By tears thou giv'st thy words to be,
When struggling feelings have no name! Return, return! By thee upborne,
And by a yet unvanquished will, The malice of my fate I'll scorn,
In woe triumphant still. Literary Gazette.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow! Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all, by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye; The few we liked the one we loved !
And the whole heart is memory.
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze ; Yet as the shadows round us lour,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given ; But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven. New Times.
BY JOANNA BAILLIE.
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight,
But not alone, by cottage fire,