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Transfused, like life, from breast to breast it glows,
From sire to son by sure succession flows;

Speeds its increasing flight from clime to clime,
Outstripping Death upon the wings of Time.

THE MAIDENS OF SPAIN.

In BYRON'S Childe Harold the women of Spain are thus eloquently described.

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread,
Nor views the column-scattering bay'net jar,
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee-she checks their base career;
The foe retires-she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?

What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?

Yet are Spain's maids, no race of Amazons,
But form'd for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,

'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
In softness as in firmness far above

Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;

Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such :

Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!

SONG.

A delicious lyric by BARRY CORNWALL.

SING a low song!

A tender cradling measure, soft and low,

Not sad, nor long,

But such as we remember long ago,

When Time, now old, was flying

Over the sunny seasons, bright and fleet,
And the red rose was lying

Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet.

Sing o'er the bier!

The bell is swinging in the time-worn tower:
He's gone who late was here,

As fresh as manhood in its lustiest hour.

A song to each brief season,

Winter and shining summer, doth belong,—

For some sweet human reason,——

O'er cradle or the coffin still a song.

MIDNIGHT.

A lovely picture from Festus, that wondrous poem which has called forth so much admiration and some abuse. It is so brimming over with the richest imagery and thought that GILFILLAN has beautifully

termed it "seed-poetry." PHILIP JAMES BAILEY is the author, and his fame in America far exceeds that which he enjoys in England.

Scene: Water and Wood; Midnight.

FESTUS (alone.) All things are calm and fair and passive. Earth

Looks as if lull'd upon an angel's lap

Into a breathless dewy sleep: so still
That we can only say of things, they be!
The lakelet now, no longer vex'd with gusts,

Replaces on her breast the pictured moon

Pearl'd round with stars. Sweet-imaged scene of time
To come, perchance, when this vain life o'erspent,
Earth may some purer beings' presence bear;
Mayhap even God may walk among his saints,
In eminence and brightness like yon moon,
Mildly outbeaming all the beads of light
Strung o'er Night's proud dark brow. How strangely fair
Yon round still star, which looks half suffering from,
And half rejoicing in, his own strong fire;
Making itself a lonelihood of light,

Like Deity, where'er in Heaven it dwells.
How can the beauty of material things

So win the heart and work upon the mind,

Unless like natured with them? Are great things

And thoughts of the same blood? They have like effect.

THE LAST WISH.

One of the most exquisite of Mrs. HEMANS's poems, full of pathos and natural beauty.

Go to the forest shade,

Seek thou the well-known glade,

Where heavy with sweet dew the violets lie,
Gleaming through moss tufts deep,

Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,

And bathed in dews of Summer's midnight sky.

Bring me those buds to shed
Around my dying head

A breath of May and of the wood's repose;

For I in sooth depart

With a reluctant heart

That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee,

Alas! this must not be;

Yet bring me still those gifts of happier hours!
Go where the fountain's breast

Catches in glassy rest

The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now;

Go to the pure stream's edge,

And from its whispering sedge

Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow!

Then, as in Hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound;
There is a lone white rose,

Shedding in sudden snows,

Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.

Well know'st thou that fair tree-
A murmur of the bee

Dwells ever in the honied time above:

Bring me one pearly flower

Of all its clustering shower—
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love.

Gather one woodbine bough

Then from the lattice low

Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,
When by the hamlet last

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd,

While dews were glancing to the glowworm's spark.

Haste, to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things and fair:

My hand no more may bind them up at eve--
Yet shall their odour soft

One bright dream round me waft

Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou wouldst ask
Wherefore thy steps I task,

The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace"Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be

The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid my image dwell
(Oh! break not thou the spell !)
In the deep wood and by the fountain side;
Thou must not, my beloved,

Rove where we two have roved,
Forgetting her that in her spring time died!

SILENCE.

A beautiful sonnet, worthy of preservation, which lately appeared in The Sun, signed, "J. J. BRIGGS."

SILENCE hath set her finger with deep touch

Upon creation's brow. Like a young bride, the moon
Lifts up Night's curtains, and with countenance mild
Smiles on the beauteous Earth, her sleeping child.
For joy the night-flowers weep-soft incense, such
As steals from herbs midst pleasant fields in June,
Freights the night air. Each light tree's waving tress
Is edged with silver-flocks lie motionless.

How sweet an hour spent in such scenes as this,

When Peace looks down from heaven in plaintive mood And Earth in deep tranquillity of bliss

Becomes a suitor to fair Solitude!

What noble actions spring to flowery prime,
Spring from the seeds Thought sows in such a time!

NIGHT SCENES.

A magnificent panorama from The Roman, by an author who has veiled his real name under the eccentric one of SYDNEY YENDYS; the second word, it will be observed, being merely the first inverted. But there is no reason why he should veil himself. He is entitled to take his place among the best of our modern poets, as this fine passage will prove.

THERE went an incense through the land one night, Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept. (Interlude of music.)

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