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My book and collar both!
A boy of larger growth ?
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
-worse is now my work :
Should mark those hours again;
in the cane!
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !-
omne bene”_Christmas come! The prize of merit won for home
Merit had prizes then ?
Without the silver pen!
The winding hors like rams' !
No “ satis” to the “jams!”
A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.
When that I was a tiny boy,
My mates were blithe and kind
To cast a look behind !
TO THE OWL.
The following lines were written in reference to the murder of
Mr. Weare, a few years ago.
Owl! that lovest the boding sky!
In the murky air,
What saw'st thou there? For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry!
“ The maple's head
Was glowing red,
But a redder gleam
Rose from the stream
Speak, oh! speak!
What crimson'd thy beak,
6 'Twas blood, 'twas blood !
And it rose like a flood,
Look! while the moon is hurrying by !-
“ In the thicket's shade
The one is laid ;You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye!" Owl! that lovest the darken'd sky!
A step beyond
From the silent pond
« On the water's edge,
Through the trampled sedge, A bubble burst, and gurgled by;
My eyes were dim,
But I look'd from the brim,
Owl! that lovest the moonless sky!
Where the casements blaze
With the faggot's rays,
Owl! what's this,
That snort and hiss,
6 'Tis he! 'tis he!
He sits 'mid the three,
Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky?
Where clank the chains
Through the prison panes, What there thou hearest tell to me?
“ In her midnight dream,
'Tis a woman's scream, And she calls on one-on one of the Three !"
Look in once more,
Through the grated door: “ 'Tis a soul that prays in agony !”
Owl! that hatest the morning sky!
On thy pinions gray,
Away,-away! I must pray, in charity,
From midnight chime,
To morning prime, Miserere, Domine !
ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM.
BY L. E. L.
His was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave; He had a right to tell their fame
Who stood himself amid the brave.
There was a tempest in the sky,
Were like dark ships and battle cry.
In thinking on my country's fame, Till almost I could dream I saw
Her colours float o'er blood and flame.
Died the high song as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
A gentle twilight hour behind.
Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal,
Like stars that darken'd in their fall.
ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM.
Hopes perishing from too much light,
Exhausted by their own excess;' Affections trusted, till they turn’d,
Like Marah's wave, to bitterness. And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ? Is this the cloud that destiny
Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing? It is—it is! tread on thy way,
Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold; Look not up from the sullen path
That lead's to this world's idol-gold.
And be thy very soul of clay,
Will worship, cringe to, and obey.
As the young poet loves to look ; And lean thou where the willow leans,
O'er the low murmur of the brook. Or worship thou the midnight sky,
In silence at its moonlit hour; Or let a single tear confess
The silent spell of music's power. Or love, or feel, or let thy soul
Be for one moment pure or free, Then shrink away at once from life,«
Its path will be no path for thee.
There are some that may praise thy lays;
earthliest is praise.