THE WEAVER'S SONG. Here is another of BARRY CORNWALL's lyrics, so fine in composition, so wholesome in sentiment-how vastly superior to the Bacchanalian songs that formerly almost engrossed the lyrical efforts of the poets. WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw And show us how brightly your flowers grow The violet deep as your true-love's eyes, Sing, sing, brothers! weave and sing, Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid Let grace in each gliding thread be hid, Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, And time nor chance shall your work untwine, So, sing, brothers, &c. Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours; One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, There is not a creature, from England's king That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring, So, sing, brothers, &c. Brilliants. GOD. WHEN God reveals his march through nature's night, His steps are beauty, and his presence light. JAMES MONTGOMERY. SLEEP AND DEATH. How wonderful is Death, THE NIGHTINGALE. SHELLEY. FOR I have ever thought that it might bless LIFE THROUGH DEATH. A DEW-DROP, falling on the wild sea wave, 66 TEARS. R. C. TRENCH. WHAT precious drops are these Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew? Dryden. RESIGNATION. WHATE'ER my doom, It cannot be unhappy: God hath given me FOREBODING. WILSON. As at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, Shrinks and closes the heart, e'er the stroke of doom has attain'd it. LONGFELLOW. GREAT MINDS. THE world must have great minds, A LONELY GRAVE. Ir was a solitary mound, BAU.EY. Which two spears' length of level ground As if in some respect of pride, Or melancholy's sickly mood Still shy of human neighbourhood, Or guilt, that humbly would express A penitential loneliness. GRIEF. WORDSWORTH. SLOW, Slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: List to the heavy part the music bears; Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours; O, I could still, Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since Nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil. BEN JONSON. HABIT. It is the mind that makes the body rich; Because his painted skin contents the eye? THE HAND. SHAKSPERE. The instrument of instruments, the hand; A LANDSCAPE. LINGUA. PATHS there were many, Winding through palmy fera, and rushes fenny, To a wide lawn, whence one could only see A little cloud would move across the blue? SLAVERY. O execrable son, so to aspire KEATS. MILTON. |