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Thrice happy—that their infant bears
And only breathed life's morning airs,
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
My memory warmly treasures yet
But no, that look is not the last,
Where love no more deplores the past,
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;
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare,
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
What though upon her speech there hung
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,
Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
Which lately seem'd to lour-
And now's their nuptial hour!
With nought to make one sigh,
Were at this moment nigh,-
Had stopp'd in full career,
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,
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