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MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Infant Love.

(From Blanch, a Poem.)

If in this world of breathing harm,
There lurk one universal charm,

One power, which, to no clime confin'd,

Sways either sex, and every mind;

Which cheers the monarch on his throne;
The slave beneath the torrid zone;

The soldier rough, the letter'd sage,
And careless youth, and helpless age;
And all that live, and breath, and move-
"Tis the pure kiss of infant love!

ANONYMOUS AUTHORESS.

Among the poems of Wordsworth are the following verses by a Female Friend of the Author. They are understood to be the production of a very near relative of that exquisite writer.

Address to a Child, during a Boisterous Winter Evening.

WHAT way does the Wind come? what way does he go?

He rides over the water and over the snow,

Thro' wood and thro' vale; and o'er rocky height Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight.

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And rings a sharp larum ;-but if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.

Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space,

Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves!

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow with me You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see That he has been there, and made a great rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about; Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig

That look'd up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down, like men in a battle:

But let him range round; he does us no harm

We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;

Untouch'd by his breath, see the candle shines

bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell,

Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight-o'clock bell.

He

Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there,

may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door,- we'll not let him in, May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his

din;

Let him seek his own home wherever it be;

Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

FELICIA HEMANS.

The Treasures of the Deep.

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main? -Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,

Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.

-Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! - What wealth untold,

Far down, and shining thro' their stillness, lies!. Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main,

Earth claims not these again!

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