The kingfisher not straighter darts Down the stream to his sweet mate's nest, Than our arrowy pinnace shoots and parts The river's yielding breast. We have passed the chalk-cliff on whose crown The hermit's hut doth cling, And the bank, whose hanging woods look down On the smile of Cliefden spring. We are come where Hedsor's crested fount And where the charmed eye loves to mount On, like a hawk upon the wing, Against her bows the ripples sing, In view is Cookham's ivied tower; O'er Marlow's loveliest vale they look, Still on, still on, as we smoothly glide, Swift dragon-flies, with their gauzy wings, And murmuring hosts of moving things O'er the waters glance and glow. There are spots where nestle wild flowers small With many a mingling gleam; Where the broad flag waves, and the bulrush tall Nods still to the thrusting stream. The Forget-me-not on the water's edge Where the broken bank, between the sedge, And in bays where matted foliage weaves A shadowy arch on high, Serene on broad and bronze-like leaves, The virgin lilies lie. Fair fall those bonny flowers! O how Those milk-white cups with a golden core, Steadily, steadily, speeds our bark, O'er the silvery whirls she springs; While merry as lay of morning lark The watery carol rings. Lo! a sailing swan, with a little fleet Of cygnets by her side, Pushing her snowy bosom sweet And see-was ever a lovelier sight? One little bird afloat On its mother's back, 'neath her wing so white, A beauteous living boat! The threatful male, as he sails ahead, He tramples the stream, as we pass him by, And after our boat begins to fly Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark, Where the willows cast their shadows dark, Oh, there's many a charming scene so mark The following powerful lines are better known, and serve to show the variety of Mr. Noel's talent. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din i He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns. The author tells me that this incident was taken from the life. He witnessed such a funeral:-a coffin in a cart driven at full speed. But a truce to this strain! for my soul it is sad To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns. IV. OLD AUTHORS. ABRAHAM COWLEY. As in the case of Ben Jonson, posterity values his writings for very different qualities from those which obtained his high reputation amongst his contemporaries, so it has happened to Cowley. Praised in his day as a great poet, the head of the school of poets called metaphysical, he is now chiefly known by those prose essays, all too short and all too few, which, whether for thought or for expression, have rarely been excelled by any writer in any language. They are eminently distinguished for the grace, the finish, and the clearness which his verse too often wants. That there is one cry which pervades them-vanity of vanities! all is vanity! that there is an almost ostentatious longing for obscurity and retirement, may be accounted for by |