THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.

FROM A PICTURE BY G. S. NEWTON, R.A.

GRACEFUL "phantom of delight!"
Glorious type of beauty bright!
Such as haunts the poet's vision,
When his dreams are all elysian,-
When his musing fancy brings
Shadows of all lovely things;
And famed Zeuxis' art excelling,
He hath formed a second Helen,-
Wanting but the power of speech,—
From the glowing traits of each!

But she may not vie with thee! There's a sweet simplicity Flitting round thine open brow, Sporting on thy ripe lips now, Mantling o'er thy maiden cheek In hues that leave description weak; With a brightness all too real For a poet's beau ideal!

Though an angel's grace is thine, Though the light is half divine, That with chastened lustre flashes From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes; Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair, And that sweetly pensive air,

THE MELODY OF YOUTH.

Speak thee but of mortal birth,
An erring, witching child of earth;
In each varied mood revealing
Human hope and human feeling;
Gladsome now-now vowed to sorrow-
Glad to-day if sad to-morrow!

Huntress fair, the sport is over,
Wherefore chain thy feathered rover?
Rich indeed the prize must be,
That could lure him far from thee!
What to him those silken jesses,
Tangled in thy glossy tresses;
Dazzled by thy beauty's light,
Can he plume his wings for flight;
Fettered by a smile so bland,
Will he ever leave thy hand?-
No; let him on thy beauty feed,
And he'll no firmer jesses need.

THE MELODY OF YOUTH.

DELICIOUS strain! upon my charméd ear,
As evening's balmy breath upon a brow
Fevered with fruitless watchings, dost thou steal,
To bid my world-worn heart retrace the scenes
Where first it drank thy sweetness! What a crowd
Of home-bred joys, of visions loved and lost,
That simple cadence brings; each lengthening note
Fraught with its own peculiar memory!
Once seemed that song, so passing mournful now,
Gay as the dreams of boyhood,-and like them

157

The source of blameless joy to all around;
But when in after years, 'mid busier scenes,
Again I listened to those wood-notes wild,
Methought they sounded sadder than of yore:
Yet were they soothing, for my wayward heart,
Though something tamed from what it once had been,
Was still all hope; and had not wholly lost
The buoyant spirit only youth can know!
How sad is now that simple song to me;

How changed from what it was when life was new,
And like the clouds that gird a summer sun,
Tinged with ethereal brightness, all things 'round
Gathered their hues of gladness from my heart.

Breathe on breathe on! 'tis soothing sweet to deem That what thou wert in other years to me, Thou mayst be still to many a youthful heart, As joyous, warm, and true as once was mine! Strain of my youth, all mournful as thou art To me, the tears thy soft, deep notes awaken Are grateful as the dew to withered flowers! And though thy tenderest notes are ever fraught With memories sad, I would not now recall; Yet such their magic influence on my soul, I deem them sweetest when they pain me most!

THE EXILES.

'TIS eve on the ocean, the breeze is in motion,
And swiftly our vessel bounds forth on her way;
The blue sky is o'er us, the world is before us,

Then Helen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

Why sorrow thus blindly, for those who unkindly

Could launch and then leave us on life's troubled sea; Who so heartlessly scanted the little we wanted,

And denied us the all that we asked-to be free!

159

But we've 'scaped from their trammels, the word is "away," Then Helen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

On, on we are speeding, and swiftly receding,

The white cliffs of Albion in distance grow blue, Now that gem of earth's treasures, that scene of past pleasures, The land of our childhood fades fast from our view! Though thus exiled we sever from England for ever,

We'll make us a home and a country afar:

And we'll build us a bower, where stern Pride has no power,
And the frown of Oppression our bliss may not mar:
We have broken our chain, and the word is "away!"
Then Helen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

STEAL his arrow, break his bow,
From his eyes the film remove!

Clip his wings, and he will grow

More like Friendship far than Love.

What though Love no faults may see,
Where's the heart he fails to wring?

And whate'er his vows may be,
He's for ever on the wing.

Mischief is his cherished aim,

Which, though blind, he seldom misses;
And where once he lights a flame,
Judas-like he slays with kisses.

Friendship is a safer guest,

When without disguise we find her;
And, where once she makes her nest,
Vows are not required to bind her.

But would Love her eyes but borrow,
Doff his wings, abjure his dart,
He should be my guest to-morrow,
Never more from me to part.

THE DEATH OF POMPEY THE GREAT.

"States vanish, ages fly:

But leave one task unchanged-to suffer and to die."

HEMANS.

NOT when his golden eagles flew,

In sunbright splendour o'er him,
When he came, and saw, and overthrew,
And kings bent down before him;
Not in his hour of regal pride,
When his navies, darkening Egypt's tide,
To fame and conquest bore him,-
Did ever Pompey's laurelled brow,
To one fond heart seem bright as now.