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النشر الإلكتروني

The haughty sun of June had walk'd, long days,
Through the tall pastures, which, like mendicants,
Hung their sear heads and sued for rain; and he
Had thrown them none. And now it was high hay-time,
Through the sweet valley all her flowery wealth
At once lay low, at once ambrosial blood
Cried to the moonlight from a thousand fields.
And through the land the incense went that night,
Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept.
It fell upon the sage; who with his lamp
Put out the light of heaven. He felt it come,
Sweetening the musty tomes, like the fair shape
Of that one blighted love, which from the past
Steals oft among his mouldering thoughts of wisdom,
And she came with it, borne on airs of youth;
Old days sang round her, old memorial days,

She crown'd with tears, they dress'd in flowers all faded-
And the night fragrance is a harmony

All through the old man's soul.

Voices of old,

The home, the church upon the village green,

Old thoughts that circle like the birds of even

Round the grey spire. Soft sweet regrets, like sunset
Lighting old windows with gleams day had not.
Ghosts of dead years, whispering old silent names
Through grass-grown path-ways, by halls mouldering now.
Childhood-the fragrance of forgotten fields;
Manhood-the unforgotten fields whose fragrance
Pass'd like a breath; the time of buttercups,
The fluttering time of sweet forget-me-nots;
The time of passion and the rose-the hay-time
Of that last summer of hope! The old man weeps,
The old man weeps.

His aimless hands the joyless books put by;
As one that dreams and fears to wake, the sage
With vacant eye stifles the trembling taper,
Lets in the moonlight, and for once is wise.

(Interlude of music.)

There went an incense through the midnight land,
Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept.
It fell upon a simple cottage child,

Laid where the lattice open'd on the sky,

And she look'd up and said, Those flowers the stars
Smelt sweet to-night. God rest her ignorance!

There went an incense through the land one night,
Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept ;
It pass'd above a lonely vale, and fell

Upon a poet looking out for signs

In heaven and earth, and went into his soul,
And like a fluttering bird among sweet strings,
Made strange Æolian music wild and dim.

(Interlude.)

A haggard man, silent beneath the stars,
Stood with bare head, a hasty step withdrawn
From a low tatter'd hat, wherefrom the faint
Low wail of famine, like a strange night-bird,
Cried on the air. He had come forth to give
His dying child, his youngest one, repose.
"Father," it said, "you weep, I cannot die."
There went an incense through the land that night,
Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept;
It came upon his soul, and went down deep,
Deep to his heart, and threw the new-made hay
Upon the coals of fire that ember'd there.
And by the rising flame came pictures fair
Of old ancestral fields that strangers till,
And patrimony that the spoiler reaps.
Then falls the flame upon the pallet near,
And forward on the canvass of the night,
To the wild father's eye, lights up that landscape
Of love and health and hope which yesterday
The poorest crumbs of the oppressor's feast
Might buy. Oh God! how coarse a crust may be
The bread of life. He breathes the night-balm in,
And breathes it back the red hot smoke of vengeance!
(Musical interlude.)

There was a lonely mother and one babe,

A moon with one small star in all her heaven-
Too like the moon, the wan and weary moon,

In pallor, beauty, all, alas! but change.

Through six long months of sighs that moon unwaning
Had risen and set beside the little star,

And now the little star, whom all the dews
Of heaven refresh not, westers to its settling
Out of the moonlight to be dark for ever.
O'er the hush'd holy land where tired men sleep,
There went an incense through the night. It fell

Upon the mother, and she slept—the babe,
It smiled, and dream'd of paradise.

THE GRAVE OF MACAURA.

Solemn and sweet are these stanzas by Mrs. DOWNING, a poetess of Ireland, on a chieftain who fell in a fight with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. AND this is thy grave, Macaura, Here by the pathway lone,

Where the thorn-blossoms are bending

Over thy moulder'd stone.

Alas! for the sons of glory;

Oh! thou of the darken'd brow,
And the eagle plume, and the belted clans,
Is it here thou art sleeping now?

Oh! wild is the spot, Macaura,

In which they have laid thee low-
The field where thy people triumph'd
Over a slaughter'd foe;

And loud was the Banshee's wailing,
And deep was the clansmen's sorrow,
When, with bloody hands and burning tears,
They buried thee here, Macaura!

And now thy dwelling is lonely,
King of the rushing horde;
And now thy battles are over,
Chief of the shining sword;
And the rolling thunder echoes
O'er torrent and mountain free,
But alas! and alas! Macaura,
It will not awaken thee.

Farewell to thy grave, Macaura,
Where the slanting sunbeams shine,
And the briar and waving fern
Over thy slumbers twine;
Thou, whose gathering summons
Could waken the sleeping glen;
Macaura, alas for thee and thine,
'Twill never be heard again!

THE BLIND CHILD.

Our language has few descriptions more beautiful than this one extracted from the News from the Farm, a poem by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the Farmer's Boy, who composed poetry while he was sitting under the hedges, literally in rags, driving the rooks from the corn-fields.

"WHERE's the blind child so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in every breeze? He's often seen
Beyond yon cottage wall, or upon the green
With others, match'd in spirit and in size,
Health in their cheeks and rapture in their eyes.
That full expanse of voice, to children dear,
Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here.
And hark! that laugh is his-that jovial cry—
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might--
A very child-in every thing but sight-
With circumscribed, but not abated powers,
Play, the great object of his infant hours.
In many a game he takes a noisy part,
And shows the native gladness of his heart;
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent,
The new suggestion, and the quick assent;
The grove invites delight, thrills every breast
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest.
Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind,
And one companion leave-the boy is blind.
His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
That childish fortitude awhile gives way;
He feels his dreadful loss-yet short the pain—
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again.
Pondering how best his moments to employ,
He sings his little songs of nameless joy,

Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour,
And plucks, by chance, the white and yellow flower;
Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees,
He binds a nosegay which he never sees;
Along the homeward path then feels his way,
Lifting his brow against the shining day,
And, with a joyful rapture round his eyes,
Presents a sighing parent with the prize!"

QUESTION AND REPLY.
By BARRY CORNWALL.

TELL me what thou lovest best?
Vernal motion? Summer rest?
Winter, with his merry rhymes?
Or the grand Autumnal times?
Dost thou Saxon beauty prize?
Or, in England, love-lit eyes?
Or the brown Parisian's grace?
Or the warm-soul'd Bordelaise?
Or the forehead broad and clear
Which the Italian Damas wear,
Braiding round their night-black hair,
Circe-like ?-Or the Spanish air,
Where the Moor has mix'd his blood
With the dull Castilian flood,
Giving life to sleepy pride?

Tell me, where wouldst thou abide,

Choosing for thyself a season,

And a mate,-for sweet Love's reason?

Nought for country should I care,

So
my mate were true and fair:
But for her--O! she should be
(Thus far I'll confess to thee)—
Like a bud when it is blowing;
Like a brook when it is flowing,
(Marr'd by neither heat nor cold);
Fashion'd in the lily's mould,-
Stately, queen-like, very fair;
With a motion like the air;
Glances full of morning light,
When the morn is not too bright;
With a forehead marble pale,
When sad Pity tells her tale;
And a soft scarce-tinted cheek,
(Flushing but when she doth speak);
For her voice, 't should have a tone
Sweetest when with me alone;

And Love himself should seek his nest
Within the fragrance of her breast!

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