The armaments which thunder-strike the walls -
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sub-
lime-

The image of eternity-the throne

Of the invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless,

alone.

B 2

YOUTH.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

OH, beautiful is youth!

How often, as it passes by,

With flowing limbs, and flashing eye,
With soul that not a care has crossed,
With cheek that not a tint has lost;
How often in my heart I cry,
How beautiful is youth!

Sweet youth! sweet youth! no need
Hast thou of such a mould,

Of such an air as sculptors old,
On god, or goddess cast,-that thrilled
With life, with thought; with beauty filled!
In simplest form thy power is shown-
Thou sweet-almighty youth!

Oh generous youth! thy gifts,
How freely are they thrown!

What humble creature has not known The radiant eye's all-liquid light:

The skin's pure freshness, soft and bright; The glittering locks, the joyous tone?

Oh happy, happy youth!

And yet thou art to me

A melancholy sound!

At once thy name doth bring around

The fairest forms-the dearest things-
The hours that took the spirit's wings!
Words-places-brightness that hath found

A memory sad and dark!

Oh youth! had I no hope

To share thy good once more, Methinks I should despise the lore, The garnered thought-the wisdom deep, In which dim age the soul would steep, The fruit which proves the flower is o'er,— And worship thee with tears.

But, blessings on a golden faith!
I see the everlasting hour,

When back thou com'st in all thy power; With friends and freedom, joy and grace; With blessings from each time and place: Life, love, and thou our triple dowerOh happy, happy youth!

A FAREWELL SONG.

MRS. HEMANS.

I GO, sweet friends! yet think of me,

When spring's low voice awakes the flowers, For we have wandered far and free

In those bright hours-the violet's hours!

I go-but when you pause to hear
From distant hills the sabbath-bell

On summer's wind float silvery clear,
Think of me then-I lov'd it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When clearly shines the ruddy blaze;
For dear hath been its hour of mirth
To me, sweet friends! in other days!

And oh

when music's voice is heard To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to tender thoughts are stirr'd, Think of me then I go, I go !

THE YOUTHFUL KING.

Suggested by a Picture of Edward the Sixth, in his royal robes.

MISS JEWSBURY.

MONARCH, pictured here in state,
Better glories yet were thine,
Than the grandeur of the great,
Than the jewels of the mine.

Born to govern and command,
Thou wast easy of control;

With a sceptre in thy hand,
There was meekness in thy soul.

Of thy haughty father's frown,
Little on thy brow we trace,

And that little softened down
By simplicity and grace.

Child in age, and child in heart,
Thy magnificent array

Could not joy or pride impart,

Thou hadst treasures more than they.

More than courtiers kneeling low;

More than flattery's ready smile;

More than conquest o'er the foe;
More, even more, than England's isle.

Treasures in which mind hath part;
Joys that teach the soul to rise;
Hopes that can sustain the heart,
When the body droops and dies!

Therefore, Star, thou art not shaded
By the darkness of the tomb!
Royal Rose! thou art not faded,
But in Paradise dost bloom!

WOMAN.

BARRY CORNWALL.

GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair,