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النشر الإلكتروني

From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the last current cease to run!
Oh may my falls be bright as thine-
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!


One of SHELLEY's wondrous descriptive passages.

I remember

Two miles on this side of the fort, the road
Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,
And winds with short turns down the precipice;
And in its depth there is a mighty rock,
Which has, from unimaginable years,
Sustain'd itself with terror and with toil
Over a gulf, and with the agony

With which it clings seems slowly coming down;
Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour,
Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans,
And, leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss
In which it fears to fall. Beneath this crag,
Huge as despair, as if in weariness
The melancholy mountain yawns. Below
You hear, but see not, the impetuous torrent
Raging among the caverns; and a bridge
Crosses the chasm; and high above these grow,
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,
Cedars, and yews, and pines, whose tangled hair
Is matted in one solid roof of shade

By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.


A spirit-stirring poem by Mrs. HEMANS.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land— Light up the beacon pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast-
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye-

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crown'd,
The lover quits his bride.

And all this change and haste and fear,
By earthly clarion spread;

How will it be when kingdoms hear

The blast that wakes the dead?


A graphic sketch from the pen of the Rev. GEORGE CRABBE, who was termed by Sir Walter Scott "the British Juvenal," and by Lord Byron, "Nature's sternest painter, but her best."

AGAIN, the country was enclosed, a wide
And sandy road has banks on either side;
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd,
And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd.
'Twas open spread to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat
The early traveller with their prayers to greet.
Within, the father, who from fences nigh
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,

Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by.
On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,

In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast.
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd
Of vigour palsied, and of beauty stain'd.
Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn'd, aud seem'd her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid; her mother there
With gipsy state engross'd the only chair.
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears.
With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging, pinches their intruding brood.
Last in the group the worn-out grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half-protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him; he, with heavy glance,
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years;
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit,
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat;
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain-
Ere they, like him, approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend.


A nursery song, so called by the author, but a true fairy lyric, and flashing with the spirit of poetry, as older readers will say. It is by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping altogether;
Green jacket, red cap,

grey cock's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flagon-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

To dig up one in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And grey-cock's feather!


By Lady DUFFERIN : extracted from the Drawing Room Scrap Book.

THE long day's done! and she sits still

And quiet in the gathering gloom:
What are the images that fill

Those absent eyes, that silent room?
Soft winds the latticed casement stir,
The hard green rose-buds tap the pane
Like merry playmates beckoning her
To join them at their sports again;
And from the hill a pleasant chime
Of bells come down upon the ear,
That seems to sing "The evening time

Is passing sweet, come forth; come here!"
But she sits still, and heedeth not

The sweet bell nor the fading light:
Time, space, earth, heaven, are all forgot,
In one dear dream of past delight.
Ah, letter! old, and cruslı'd, and worn,
Yet fresh in those love-blinded eyes,

As on that first delightful morn

That gave thee to her patient sighs,
How hoped for, dream'd of, dear thou art!
What earnest of like joys to come!
How treasured near her simple heart,
That first fond letter from her home!
Poor child so early com'st thou forth,
Like Ruth, to glean in alien fields;
Cold welcome greets thee on this earth,
And poor the harvest that it yields !

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