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Hard by soft night of summer bowers is seen, With trellised vintage curtaining a cove
Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green, The glooming bunches, and the boughs above. Finches, and moths, and gold-dropt dragon-flies
Dip in their wings, and a young village-daughter
Is bending with her pitcher o'er the water; Her round arm imaged, and her laughing eyes,
And the fair brow amid the flowing hair, Look like the nymph's, for Hylas coming up,
Pictured among the leaves and fruitage there; Or the boy's self a-drowning with his cup. Up through the vines, her urn upon her head,
Her feet unsandal'd, and her dark locks free,
She takes her way, a lovely thing to see ; And like a skylark starting from its bed,
A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame, Or virgin waters gushing from their springs,
Her hope flies up-her heart is pure of blameOn wings of sound: she sings ! oh how she sings !
HOME AND FRIENDS.
By CHARLES SWAIN.
As sweet as Heaven design'd it ;
Though few there be that find it !
And lose what Nature found us ;
As home and friends around us !
For future hopes—and praise them;
If we'd but stoop to raise them!
When Youth's bright spell bath bound us ;
Like home and friends around us !
The friends that speed in time of need,
When Hope's last reed is shaken,
We are not quite forsaken!
From friendship's altar crown'd us,
Our home and friends around us !
TO A WITHERED TREE IN JUNE.
By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON. DESOLATE tree! why are thy branches bare ?
What hast thou done
Frost from the sun ?
Unto the herd;
Home to the bird.
Thy smiles were gay,
To the young May.
Around thee gleam ;-
That dwell i' the beam.
Thy liberal course, poor prodigal, is sped;
How lonely now! -
The leafless bough!
What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air,
Frost from the sun ?
"Never," replied that forest-hermit lone
(Old truth and endless !)
Are we left friendless.
" Yet wholly nor for winter nor for storm
Doth Love depart!
Creeps to the heart!
" Ah! nought without, within thee if decay,
Can heal or hurt thee;
Who may desert thee!”
Caroline. See, the moon bangs there on the verge of stars, Like a bright vestal at a temple porch.
Ferdinand. Ah, 'tis a blissful night! The universe
Some books are drenched sands,
Such glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed,
A thousand sours has temper'd with one sweet
WOMAN. The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath Feels in its barrenness some touch of Spring, And in the April dew, or beam of May, Its moss and lichens freshen and reviveAnd thus the heart most sear'd to human pleasure, Melts at the tear, joys at the smile of woman.
Sir Joseph BEAUMONT. b. 1582.
Does come with a first beauty on the ear,
A pleasant noise till noon,
In the leafy month of June,
Singeth a quiet tune.
If haply from his guarded breast
The old thoughts never die. Immortal dreams