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112 ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TASSO. And Winter deepens with its stormy din The quiet charm of the bright hearth within.

If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view,

I sought to give thy foreign chords à tongue, Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew,

When on thy cypress bough again thou’rt hung; But sometimes whisper of me to the few

I love, the fond, the faithful and the young, And those who reverence the wrong'd soul that

plann'd Thy world of sound with archangelic hand. Hear how the strings, dear Ida, sound abroad

The grief and glory of that matchless mind ! What ardour glows in each seraphic chord;

How deep a passion Echo leaves behind ! Yet was he wretched whom all tongues applaud,For

peace he panted, for affection pined: Be thou, whilst thy mild eyes with pity swim, More kind to me than AURA was to him;

Else shall I little prize the' indulgent praise

Which some may lavish on a task so long; Else shall I mourn, that e'er my early days

Were given to feeling, solitude, and song; But thee no light capricious fancy sways, To doubt thy truth would be the heavens to

wrong ; Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell ! And thou, Hesperian Harp, farewell, farewell!

MIDNIGHT.

BY D. M. MOIR.

'Tis night, and in darkness ;-the visions of youth

Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind ; The hopes that excited have perish'd ;-and truth

Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind, 'Tis midnight;—and wide o'er the regions of riot

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose ; And man soothed from revel and lull'd

into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven,

Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,

To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest ;

A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals: But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest

The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust;

Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust;

The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,

?Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold : Yes,—the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish

That the heart may be widow'd before it be old ! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,

Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to depart; But oh! Disappointment has poison and power

To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart!.. How oft ’neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice

Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice,

Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed!

MIDNIGHT.

114 Let the storms of adversity lour,—tis in vain, Though friends should forsake me and foes should

condemn; These may kindle the breasts of the weak to com

plain They only can teach resignation to mine: For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming,

The spirit beholds a less perishing span; And bright through the tempest the rainbow is

streaming, The sign of forgiveness from Maker to Man?

SEASONS FOR LOVING.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

Dost thou idly ask to hear

At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near

Press the tenderest reasons ?
Ah, they give their faith too oft

To the careless wooer;
Maidens' hearts are always soft,

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around

Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early flowers are springing :
When the brookside, bank and grove,

All with blossoms laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,

Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her, when, with rosy blush,

Summer eve is sinking; When, on rills that softly gush,

Stars are softly winking ; When, through boughs that knit the bower,

Moonlight gleams are stealing; Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wakes a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes

Tinge the woody mountain; When the dropping foliage lies,

In the half-choked fountain ;
Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

Woo her when the north winds call

At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the faggots brightly;
While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story.

SAPPHO.

BY MISS LANDON.

She was one
Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung
With myrtle and with laurel: on whose head
Genius had shed his starry glories,-transcripts
Of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment.

She leant upon her harp, and thousands look'd
On her in love and wonder;—thousands knelt
And worship'd in her presence :-burning tears,
And words that died in utterance, and a pause
Of breathless agitated eagerness,
First gave the full heart's homage, then came forth
A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills,
The distant valleys, all rang with the name
Of the Æolian Sappho !- Every heart
Found in itself some echo to her song.
Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh,-
And some gone by for ever-glorious dreams,
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts
That dwell upon the absent and the dead,
Were breathing in her music—and these are
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed,
Her colour's varying with deep emotion-
There is a softer blush than conscious pride
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile
Is all a woman's timid tenderness.
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days
And feelings warm have rush'd on her soul
With all their former influence ;—thoughts that slept
Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to new life ;-
Whole years' existence have pass'd in that glance.

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