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ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

MAGNIFICENT creature ! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wasting up his own mountains that far beaming head;
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale !-
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful !-hail!
Hail! idol divine !-whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn,
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and

moor,
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore;
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee,
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne !
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone-
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
There the bright heathersprings up in love of thy breast,
Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill !
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still!
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,
One moment—thou bright apparition--delay!
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.

His voyage is o'er-As if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamour'd of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race-
A dancing ray chain'd to one sunshiny place-

48

ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;
With rock wall-encircled-with precipice crown'd-
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound.
'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies,
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold.
Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose-
In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath,-
In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar,-
In the cliff that

once trod must be trodden no more,Thy trust—'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign :

-But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurn’d from his furious feet;And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As Nature's fierce in the wilderness dies.

SERENADE.

BY C. F. HOUSEMAN,

The brook is purling on its way,

Amid a thousand flowers;
It seems not night, but paler day,

So clear the moonlight hours :
And many a light step treads the green,

And music now begins-
The tinkling of the light guitar,

The sound of mandolins !

Come forth, my love, and I will weave

A garland for thy brow;
The brightest roses, kiss'd by eve,

Are shining brighter now!
The moonlight loses half its charms,

However bright, for me,
If 'tis not shared with thee, my love,-

If 'tis not shared with thee!

'TIS HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS.

'Tis home where'er the heart is;

Where'er it's loved ones dwell,
In cities or in cottages,

Throng'd haunts or mossy dell:
The heart's a rover ever,

And thus on wave and wild,
The maiden with her lover walks,

The mother with her child.
LYRE.

D

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'TIS HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS.
'Tis bright where'er the heart is;

Its fairy spells can bring
Fresh fountains to the wilderness,

And to the desert-spring.
There are green isles in each ocean,

O’er which affection glides;
And a haven on each rugged shore,

When love's the star that guides.
'Tis free where'er the heart is;

Nor chain nor dungeon dim,
May check the mind's aspirings,

The spirit's pealing hymn!
The heart gives life its beauty,

Its glory and its power,
'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream,

And soft dew to its flower.

THE LUTE.

BY THE REV. G, CROLY.

I have seen the scymetar in the Sabib's hand, and the seeptre in the Rajah's; I have seen the one rusted, and the other broken. And I have seen the lute ring over the graves of the Sahib and the Rajah. Let me then take the lute, and with it win thee.

Bengalee Poem.

The masters of the earth have died,

Their kingly strength is dust and air !
Within their breasts of fire and pridė,

The worm has made his quiet lair.
I feel the world is vanity,
And take my lute and sing to thee.

I saw the Rajah arm'd for war;

I saw his chieftains trampling round;
I saw his banner like a star;

I heard his trumpet's stormy sound:
On rush'd they, like the rising sea-
I took my lute, and sang to thee.
The eve was on the mountain's brow:

I heard the echo of despair;
I saw the host returning slow-

The Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare;
I saw his gore, and wept to see :-
That eve I touch'd no lute to thee.
My steps were once in lordly halls,

My brow once wore the diadem,
A thousand barbs were in my stalls,

Upon my banner blazed the gem :-
All fled like dreams, so let them flee-
I take my lute, and sing to thee.
What's life?—at best a wandering breath;

When saddest, a passing sigh;
When happiest, but a summer wreath-

A sigh of roses floating by.
Soon, soon alike the bond and free-
So sings my lute, and sings to thee.
Then come, Sherene! I've found a grove,

Beneath a wild hill's purple van,
Where coos the silver-bosom'd dove;

Where the wild peacock spreads his fan;
Where springs the roebuck in his glee :
Love, hear my lute, it sings to thee.
There, on the valley's blossom'd slope,

Shines to the sun the pheasant's plume,
There, like a ray, the antelope

Gleams through the thicket’s fragrant gloom.

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