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Thrice happy—that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin ;

And only breathed life's morning airs,
Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,

My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;

But no, that look is not the last,
We get may meet where seraphs dwell,

Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-farewell.

SAPPHO. This poem, so remarkable for bold originality, is the production of the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY, who is better known to the public as the author of some still more remarkable works in prose, of which Alton Locke was the most famous. No reader will question the claim of the composer of these lines to the title of poet. The picture is perfect. The hand of a great artist is visible in every touch.

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Above her glared the moon; beneath, the sea.
Upon the white horizon Athos' peak
Welter'd in burning haze; all airs were dead;
The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair;
The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below
The lazy sea-weed glisten’d in the sun;
The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;
The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge,
And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest ;
And mother Earth watch'd by him as he slept,
And hush'd her myriad children for awhile.

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And sigh'd for sleep,—for sleep that would not hear.
But left her tossing still ; for night and day
A mighty hunger yearn'd within her heart,
Till all her veins ran fever, and her cheek,
Her long thin bands, and ivory-channel'd feet,
Were wasted with the wasting of her soul.
Then peevishly she flung her on her face,

And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare,
And finger'd at the grass, and tried to cool
Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward;
And then she raised her head, and upward cast
Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light
Gleam'd out between deep folds of blue-black hair,
As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks
Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon.
Beside her lay her lyre. She snatch'd the shell,
And waked wild music from its silver strings;
Then toss'd it sadly by," Ah, hush !” she cries,
"Dead offspring of the tortoise, and the mine!
Why mock my discords with thine harmonies ?
Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,
Only to echo back in every tone
The moods of nobler natures than thine own."

A HIGHLAND MAIDEN. In his poetry, as in his prose, Sir WALTER SCOTT excelled in description. He could paint in words, and conjure up scenes and persons before the mind's eye of the reader as vividly as an artist could exhibit them upon his canvass. What a delightful portrait is the following, from The Lady of the Lake! How life-like ! how real ! Who will not image, as he reads, the Highland Maiden herself, and think of her ever after as of one whom he has seen ?

NEVER did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown;
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served, too, in hastier swell, to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow.
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood bad train'd her pace;
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ;
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head
Elastic from her airy tread.

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue;
Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear,
The list'ner held his breath to hear.
A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxurious ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing ;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care ;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the banks in shapes more true,
Than ev'ry free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call’d forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unreveal'd,
With maiden pride the maid conceald,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;
O need I tell that passion's name?

THE SUMMER WEBS. A sweet summer song, by Tom MOORE, will be read with pleasure.

The summer webs that float and shine,

The summer dews that fall,
Though light they be, this heart of mine

Is lighter still than all.

It tells me every cloud is past

Which lately seem'd to lour-
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,

And now's their nuptial hour!
With light thus round, within, above,

With nought to make one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love

Were at this moment nigh,-
It seems as if life's brilliant sun

Had stopp'd in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,

And rest in radiance here.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

There is a martial spirit and exultant power in this ballad that stirs the heart, like the sound of a trumpet. And how musical the verse! It is by MACAULAY, great almost in poetry as in prose. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant

land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still, are they who wrought thy walls

annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of

war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand; And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's em

purpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre ! The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to

wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord

the King." 66 And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul.

verin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding

star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath

turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish Count is

slain, Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale;

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