HE splendour falls on castle walls,

And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going;
Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing.
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;

Blow, bugle! answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

THE MAGNETIC FLOWER.

Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill, on field, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

WILLIAM CHARLES MARK KENT. 1823.

Habe agnetic Flower.

ID the blue meadows of the sky,
'Mid the green deserts of the land,
A silver star-gem blooms on high,

A golden blossom on the sand,—`
Guides, GOD hath lettered all around,

In air, and in the verdure of the ground.

And ever when the traveller turns

His track across the wild or main,

There, through the clouds, the star-gem burns,
There glows the blossom on the plain;

There o'er his head, or 'neath his feet,
The guardian jewel doth his glances greet.

The soul, too, hath its star and flower,
Its guides amid the glooms of sin;
Aye luring when dark passions lower,
Or from on high, or from within;
The bloom perennial, and the light
Shining unquenched amid temptation's night.

Faith is the star that gleams above,

Hope is the flower that buds below:

A CHILD IN PRAYER.

Fefine speaks not, yet her glances
Tell of love in every look,
And while boldly he advances,
Downward drops his reaping-hook.

Lo his pent emotion gushes

Blindly forth in burning words; While in answer she but blushes ;'Round them softly chaunt the birds.

Palm to palm their fingers mingle-
He so fervid, she so chaste;
Through his arm warm pulses tingle
Circling round her supple waist.

All her grace of art he copies,
Bending o'er her form so fair,
Twining scarlet leaves of poppies
In her auburn gloom of hair.

Fefine dearly loves her lover,

Loves him as the lark the morn, Now that both their love discover ;Breathing 'mid the golden corn.

b

R. D. WILMOTT. 1809.

A Child in Prayer.

OLD thy little hands in prayer

By thy list'ning mother's knee, Now while thy sunny face is fair, Sweet shining through thy auburn hair Thine eyes are frank and free; And loving thoughts like garlands bind To thy dear home thy trusting mind.