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And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann's, She faded, 'midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest who play'd

Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond on earth!

THE POET'S BRIDAL SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

0! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears, –
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee !
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom, and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

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THE POET'S BRIDAL SONG. Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon; Or linger'd, 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ;
And time and care and birth-time woes
Hlave dimm'd thy eye, and touch'd thy rose ;
To thee and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought-
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.
0, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for those locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant liglit;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower :
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;

And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak :
I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that's not divine !

A STORM.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

THERE was a Tempest brooding in the air,
Far in the west. Above, the skies were fair,
And the sun seem'd to go in glory down-
One small black cloud (one only), like a crown
Touch'd his descending disk, and rested there :
Slow then it came along, to the great wind
Rebellious, and, although it blew and blew,
Came on increasing, and across the blue
Spread its dark shape, and left the sun behind.
The daylight sank, and the winds wail'd about
The barque wherein the luckless couple lay,
And from the distant cloud came scattering out
Rivers of fire: it seem'd as though the day
Had burst from out the billows far away.
No pilot had they their small boat to steer
Aside from rocks; no sea-worn mariner,
Who knew each creek and bay and shelt'ring steep,
And all the dangers of the turbulent deep.
They fled for life (for happiness is life),
And met the Tempest in his hour of strife
Abroad upon the waters: they were driven
Against them by the angry winds of Heaven;
Or thus it seem'd: the clouds, the air, the

sea,
Rose from unnatural dead tranquillity.
And came to battle with their legions: hail
Shot shattering down, and thunders roar'd aloud,
And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud

A STORM

110
Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale,
And darted through the Heavens. Below, the gale
Sang like a dirge, and the white billows lash'd
The boat, and then like ravenous lions dash'd
Against the deep wave-hidden rocks, and told
Of ghastly perils as they backward rolld.
The lovers driven along from hour to hour,
Were helpless—hopeless—in the ocean's power.
The storm continued; and no voice was heard,
Save that of some poor solitary bird,
That sought a shelter on the quivering mast;
But soon borne off by the tremendous blast,
Sank in the waters, screaming. The great sea
Bared, like a grave, its bosom silently,
Then fell and panted like an angry thing
With its own strength at war: the vessel flew
Towards the land, and then the billows grew
Larger and white, and roar'd as triumphing,
Scattering afar and wide the heavy spray,
That shone like bright snow as it pass’d away.
At first, the dolphin and the porpoise dark
Came rolling by them, and the hungry shark
Follow'd the boat, patient and eager eyed,
And the gray curlew slanting dipp'd her side,
And the hoarse gull his wings within the foam :
But some had sunk—the rest had hurried home.
And now pale Julia and her husband (clasp'd
Each in the other's arms) sate viewing death ;
She, for his sake in fear, silently gasp'd,
And he to cheer her kept his steady breath,
Talking of hope, and smiled like morning. There
They sate together in their sweet despair :
Sometimes

his breast she laid her head,
And he upon her silent beauty fed,
Hushing her fears, and 'tween her and the storm
Drew his embroider'd cloak to keep her warm ;.

upon

She thank'd him with a look upturn'd to his,
The which he answer'd by a tender kiss,
Press’d and prolong'd to pain ! her lip was cold,
And all her love and terror mutely told.
-The vessel struck.-

ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TRANSLATION

OF TASSO.

BY J. H. WIFFEN.

Fare thee well, soul of sweet Romance ! farewell,

Harp of the South ! the stirring of whose strings Has given, by power of their melodious spell,

Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings, That-rapt in spirit to the Delphic cell,

'Midst its green laurels and prophetic springs,The tuneful labours of past years now seem A brief indulgence—an enchanted dream. My pride at noon, my vision of the night,

My hope at morn, my joy at lonely eve ! Now that thy tones of magical delight

Are o'er, do I not well to droop and grieve? To what new region shall the Muse take flight,

What pictures fashion, what fresh numbers weave, When all that else had charm'd must now appear Tame to the eye and tuneless to the ear? Much shall I miss thee when, in calm repose,

The Summer moon upon my casement shines; Much, when the melancholy Autumn strows

With leaves my walk beneath the’o'erarching pines. Nor less when Spring, 'twixt shower and sunshine,

throws Abroad the sweet breath of her eglantines,

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