The world is full of sorrows-on every side I see Shadows instead of sunlight, and grief instead of glee; Or if I hear the trumpet-voice of Pleasure cleave the sky, The mournful echo, Sadness, is certain to reply. O would I were a Fairy, as light as falling snows, chose: I'd visit many a sunny spot, and far away I'd flee, Where Crime and Folly seldom come-beneath the forest tree. A STILL PLACE. PROCTOR. UNDER what beechen shade, or silent oak, And to harmonious strife, with his wild reed, THE EVENING WIND. BRYANT. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. A MAIDEN'S FANTASY. MISS JEWSBURY. Thou must Acknowledge that more loving dust Earth and Heaven. O WERE my Love a bee, I would not chide his absence from my bowers, His bright wild wanderings 'mid a thousand flowers; Enough for me, To know my heart the hive where he might bring His treasured honey, fold his weary wing. Or if a rose were he, I would not frown upon his gallant play Enough for me, To pluck the coronal when nought caressed, Or if a fair star he, That won all eyes and seemed on all to shine, Enough for me, Like a small quiet billow none survey, O sweet Love be Of the wide world the glory and the dream, Whate'er may fairest, brightest, goodliest seem. Enough for me, To mark and tell thy triumphs, yet divine, GENIUS SLUMBERING. PERCIVAL. HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame; And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there; There are who still remember how he bore Upward his daring pinions, till the air Seemed living with the crown of light he wore; He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye He will not sleep for ever, but will rise Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now, Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone; Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing; He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take- |