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, To do whate'er my fancy bade-to wander where I 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,
Lies the mute Sylvan now-mysterious Pan?
-Once (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran
Clear from their fountains)—as the morning broke,
'Tis said, the satyr with Apollo spoke,

And to harmonious strife, with his wild reed,
Challenged the god, whose music was indeed
Divine, and fit for heaven.-Each play'd, and woke
Beautiful sounds to life, deep melodies:
One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care
That flocks and birds all answer'd him; and one
Shook his immortal showers upon the air.

That music hath ascended to the sun;

But where the other?-Speak! ye dells and trees!

THE EVENING WIND.

BRYANT.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their
spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

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

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

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
Ne'er wept beneath the skies.

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
With dews, and sunbeams, and the zephyrs gay;
Enough for me,

To pluck the coronal when nought caressed,
And shroud its dying beauty in my breast.

Or if a fair star he,

That won all eyes and seemed on all to shine,
I would not blame his beauty or repine;
Enough for me,

Like a small quiet billow none survey,
To tremble in his light, then melt away.

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,
No love so gentle, or so deep as mine.

GENIUS SLUMBERING.

PERCIVAL.

HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,
That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

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;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep for ever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,
The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams,
His wakened spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take

They, who, with feebler space, still kept their way,

When he forgot the contest-shall they take,

Now he renews the race, the victor's bay?