In doubts, my judge,—in taste, my guide,In all, my stay and ornament! He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one, whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land ;* In whose sea-odes,-as in those shells Such was our host; and though, since then, Slight clouds have ris'n twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hands again, Stretch'd forth again in amity? Who can, in this short life, afford Bright was our board that day,—though one Unworthy brother there had place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun, One was, they say, of earthly race. Yet, next to Genius, is the power * Campbell. And there was light around that hour Such as, in memory, never dies; Light which comes o'er me, as I gaze, Thou relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanish'd days, Brightly, indeed,—but mournfully! SUMMER SONG. MRS. HEMANS. COME away! the sunny hours In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty's glow- Where the lily's tender gleam All the air is filled with sound, Faint winds whisper as they pass Come away; Where the bee's deep music swells From the trembling fox-glove bellsCome away! In the skies the sapphire blue Night and day Floats with leafy scent along- Where the boughs with dewy gloom In the deep heart of the rose Dreamy, starry, queenly bright— Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies, Now each tree by summer crown'd, There the deer its couch hath made- Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in their honey-time Come away-away! SPRING. BARRY CORNWALL. WHEN the wind blows In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows On the fragrant lea, And the stream flows All bright and free, 'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me, 'Tis not for any one here I trow: The gentle wind bloweth, The happy cow loweth, The merry stream floweth, O the Spring! the bountiful Spring! Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep? To the bed that's poor. Peasants must weep, And kings endure; That is a fate that none can cure; Yet Spring doth all she can, I trow; She dresseth her bowers, O the Spring, &c. THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. L. E. LANDON. THERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, Beneath is a soldier lying, The death-wound came amid sword and plume, When banner and ball were flying. Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest, There were tears that fell from manly eyes, And the wailing of age and infant cries, He had left his home in his spirit's pride, He came again, in the light of his fame, But the cloud of strife came upon the sky; |