ADDRESS TO A STEAM VESSEL.
JOANNA BAILLIE.

FREIGHTED with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leav'st the busy port:
Thy long and ample deck, where scatter'd lie
Baskets and cloaks, and shawls of scarlet dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are straying,
And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing;
While matron dames to tressell'd seats repair,-
Seems, on the gleamy waves, a floating fair.
Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clust'ring group thy pillar'd mast.
The dense smoke issuing from its narrow vent
Is to the air in curly volumes sent,
Which, coiling and uncoiling in the wind,
Trails like a writhing serpent far behind.
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies,
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise,
And newly parted from the noisy fray,
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way,
Then, far diverged, in many a welted line
Of lustre on the distant surface shine.
Thou hold'st thy course in independent pride;
Nor leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide.
To whate'er point the breeze, inconstant, veer,
Still doth thy careless helmsmen onward steer ;
As if the stroke of some magician's wand
Had lent thee power the ocean to command.

OLD FRIENDS.

ANON.

WHERE have ye stroll'd, ye friends of old,
Companions of my youth?

Each walk, each nook, each dream, each book,
Brings back the bitter truth;

I call to mind, but cannot find
The forms I once loved well:

Where have ye fled, ye

I ask-ye do not tell!

vanished?

I search, Ï roam,—abroad, at home,
I seek each much loved spot;
My labour ends, but ye, dear friends,
Like Rachel's babes, are not."
I ask the deep if there ye sleep,
Like sea-nymphs in a shell ?
And echoes sweet my words repeat,-
But ocean will not tell.

I ask the sky, if there ye fly,

With angels "bright and fair;"
Each silver star, that shines afar,
If ye are singing there ?

I ask each stream, whose glancing beam,
Makes glad each flow'ry dell,

Each bird, each wood, each crag, each flood-
But none of these will tell.

I ask the crowd, so gay and loud,
If in its maze ye hide?

The city's throng, which floats along,
If down its course ye glide?

From hallow'd ground the solemn sound

Of distant "passing bell

Attracts my mind, and then I find

The truth its tidings tell.

Friends of my youth, I know the truth,
No longer need I ask,

My conscious heart, though keen the smart,
Tears off the selfish mask.

The greedy tomb, in its dark womb
Conceals your forms from sight;
And now all bless'd, ye are "at rest,"

In realms where frowns no night. 'Tis sweet to dwell in hawthorn dell, And roam the groves among;

To climb the mount, to haunt the fount,
And catch each warbler's song,

To mark the grace of Nature's face
In foliage, flower, or sod;-

But, oh, how great-how sweet their fate,
Who dwell with Nature's God!

'Tis sweet to wile with friendly smile
Life's troublous hours away,
66 a vale of tears,"

For earth appears

And hastens to decay.

But, oh, to heaven much more is given,
Eye hath not seen its glory;
The joy of saints no poet paints-
Ear hath not heard the story.
Old friends and true, adieu, adieu;
"Twere sin to wish you here;
In love ye dwell, beyond the spell
Of earthly woe or fear :

No mortal man your bliss can scan
'Mongst angels "bright and fair;"
Then may I rise to yon blue skies,
And share your glory there.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

JOHN CLARE.

THIS is the month* the nightingale, clod-brown,
Is heard among the woodland's shading boughs:
This is the month, when in the vale, grass-grown,
The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows.
What time the blue mist round her patient cows
Dim rises from the grass, and half conceals
Their dappled hides, I hear the nightingale,
That from the little blackthorn springing, steals
To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale;
And still unseen, sings sweet. The ploughman feels
The thrilling music as he goes along,

And imitates and listens; while the fields
Lose all their paths in dusk: to lead him wrong,
Still sings the nightingale her sweet melodious song.

* Written in June.

ON THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEPARTURE.
CHARLOTTE SMITH.

SWEET poet of the woods-a long adieu !
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year !
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,
And pour thy music on "the night's dull ear."
Whether in spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step, the love-lorn youth shall glide,
Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best :
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

DOMESTIC PEACE.

COLERIDGE.

TELL me, on what holy ground
May domestic peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate;
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
Listening to the Sabbath bells;
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW.

UNDER a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms,
As strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys,

And hears the parson pray and preach :
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies,

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.