miration for one whose talents have disdained repose, and whose pages have ever advocated the cause of right. Sophocles, in the days of old, could dream away his summer midnight on the reeds by the Ilyssus, listening to the moonlight music of the nightingales. Mr. Bulwer early felt that a modern writer had nothing in common with this literary luxury, and his genius has ever seemed held by him as a trust rather than an enjoyment. We should think the great success of his writings in other countries must be very gratifying.* Praise from afar comes the nearest to fame. Mr. Bulwer has already produced four standard novels, works replete with thought and mind, and he yet wants some years of thirty. A still more active career, that of public life, now lies before him. If first-rate talents, enlarged and liberal views, strong and noble principles, can make one man's future an object and benefit to his country, we are justified in the high anticipations with which we look forward to Mr. Bulwer's future. Last year, he was eagerly solicited, by a large body of its most respectable inhabitants, to stand for Southwark. Reluctance to oppose Mr. Calvert made him decline the honour; but we cannot conclude this article better than by part of his first declaration of public faith-“I should have founded my pretensions, had I addressed myself to your notice, upon that warm and hearty sympathy in the great interests of the people, which, even as in my case, without the claim of a long experience or the guarantee of a public name, you have so often, and I must add, so laudably, esteemed the surest and the highest recommendation to your favour. And, gentlemen, to the eager wish, I will not hesitate to avow that I should have added the determined resolution to extend and widen, in all their channels, those pure and living truths which can alone circulate through the vast mass of the community that political happiness so long obstructed from the many, and so long adulterated even for the few.

READ, MARK, LEARN.

'Tis not to hearken whilst the preacher talks,
Letting thy heart loose on its eager way,-
Worshipping God, because man bids thee pray,-

Or following blindly where the pontiff walks:

Read, Learn, Digest! And when God's "heavenly Truth"

Breaks forth, like Dawn, upon thy brain benighted,

Then give thy Soul up to the skies,-delighted,

For then will Age confirm the dreams of Youth.

And, Oh! 'bove all things else (this truth remember!)
Let gentle thoughts beget sweet human Deeds!

Good are they who believe, and fast, and pray;
But best of all is he who th' hungry feeds,

And from the deadly blast of wild December

Shelters the orphan lone, the poor man old and

gray

!

* Besides being translated into the French and German languages, numerous editions have been published in America.

A GARLAND OF COMMON FLOWERS.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

1. A PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS.

Brother. COME on! This way! Here,-down the steep hill's side-
Sister. Are these your peaceful haunts? Quick! let us fly:"
The Wind pursues us like an enemy.

How sharp his arrows are, tipped with fierce hail!
And what a voice! Throughout the mountainous passes
Destroyer-like he wanders up and down,

Roaring like the wild sea. Will he devour

In this his wrath, all things he chance to meet? .
Let's fly!

Brother. Come on:-yet, fear not; thou art safe.

Sister.

This musical thunder is the Spirit's sport.

Hast thou not read o' the whale,-how he spouts forth
Whole rivers from his nostrils, when he's merry?
Puffs like a storm! And through the panting billows
(Which chafe and tremble as the monster rolls)
Goes rioting like a boy? So doth our Wind.
Perhaps in some ice cave he hath slept for months,
(Numb'd as a dormouse) and now forth he comes
To stretch his liberated limbs, and hunt

The fugitive clouds (his gaolers) through the sky.
Look, where they go! Dost see yon ponderous thing,
Tusked like an elephant? The villain flies

Before a foe he sees not. Quick, come on!
Perhaps he sees his shadow swim i' the lake,
And dreams it is a ghost.
A little farther-

How the tempest howls!

Brother. A rare musician, is he not.

Sister.

Come on, come on!

Hush,-hush!

Didst hear that rolling bass? Hark !-Yesterday
Thou talk'dst of thy church music :-Dost thou think
Cathedral organs (touched by any hands

Meaner than angels) can compete with this?
Hark!-Echoes, dreaming on the mountain sides
Wake and reply: The rustling woods, bowed down
By the breath o' the storm, sigh forth their solemn joy;
And each brook sings its song. Look, where below
The leaden-coloured waters break in foam,
Whilst (like some 'ffrighted flock of tiny birds,
When in the air the kite or eagle rides)

A thousand little waves hurry to shore.

Well done, well done! Thou wilt outrun the doe:
A little farther-Soh !-we're safe, at last!
And have we been in peril?

Brother. Faith, thou hast.

I thought at one time that the roaring Wind
Would take thee on his back to Skiddaw, girl.
Look at the mountainous giant !-Shouldst thou like
A ride across the air? Perhaps thou might'st
(I say it but half in sport) be, on thy road,
Smit suddenly by some great truth,—perhaps
Determine some strange riddle of the winds.
But thou art safe-thank the loud Boreas !-safe;
And we will now pursue our earnest way
Unto a spirit potent as the winds,

But gentle,-one who, without magic rites, Interprets the sweet thoughts of all sweet things,A poet! Dost thou love that dreaming race? Sister. Is he a lofty one?

Brother. Ay, girl;—and yet

His fancy doth not always jump to th' clouds,
Nor sit for ever on the mountain-tops;
But in the grassy valleys doth she lie

Reposing, by some pool, or bubbling spring,
By trees or hedge-row flowers, and from each thing
Weaves such sweet morals, that the awakening soul
(Shedding the film of custom) straight reverts
Its eyes unto the past, and once more loves
(With all the natural wisdom of its youth)
The innocent joys of childhood. "Is he lofty?"
Ay he is lofty. Stern simplicity

Clothes his more common thought; but when the Cause

Is mighty, his Muse puts on her mighty wings,

And, with a voice potential, to the Sea,

To Earth, its flowers, its running rivers, lakes,
Heaven and the countless stars, and endless Air,
Calls and compels reply. But thou shalt hear
An imitation of his pastoral pipe,

(Mine own) and do not thou despise, dear girl,
The mimic music of a homely song.
Think of" The Past," and listen!

This common field, this little brook-
What is there hidden in these two,

That I so often on them look,

Oftener than on the heavens blue?
No beauty lies upon the field;
Small music doth the river yield;
And yet I look and look again,
With something of a pleasant pain.
"Tis thirty-can't be thirty years

Since last I stood upon this plank,
Which o'er the brook its figure rears,

And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?
How white the stream!-I still remember
Its margin, glassed by hoar December,
And how the sun fell on the snow-
Ah! can it be so long ago?

It cometh back-so blythe-so bright-
It hurries to my eager ken,

As though but one short winter's night

Had darkened o'er the world since then.
It is the same clear dazzling scene,—
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green,
Perhaps the river's troubled voice,
Doth not so plainly say-" Rejoice."
Yet Nature surely never ranges,—
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;
But, ever joyful, merely changes
The primrose for the thistle down.
'Tis we alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,
Dissolve her in our burning tears,
Or clothe her with the mists of years.

Then why should not the grass be green,

And why should not the river's song
Be merry, as they both have been,

When I was here an urchin strong?-
Ah, true,-too true! I see the sun
Through thirty winter years hath run,
For grave eyes, mirror'd in the brook,
Usurp the urchin's laughing look!
So be it! I have lost,-and won:

For once the past was poor to me,-
The future dim; and though the sun

Shed life and strength, and I was free,
I felt not-knew no grateful pleasure-
All seemed but as the common measure:
But Now-the experienced Spirit old
Turns all the leaden past to gold!

2. THE FIRE-FLY.

TELL us, O Guide, by what strange natural laws
This winged flower throws out, night after night,
Such lunar brightness? Why, for what grave cause
Is this earth-insect crown'd with heavenly light?-
Peace! rest content: see where, by cliff and dell,
Past tangled forest paths and silent river,
The little lustrous creature guides us well,
And where we fail, his small light aids us ever.

Night's shining servant! pretty star of earth!
I ask not why thy lamp doth ever burn:
Perhaps it is thy very life,-thy mind:

And thou, if robb'd of that strange right of birth,
Might be no more than man, when Death doth turn
His beauty into darkness cold and blind!

3. THE GROUND-SWELL.

GREAT Ocean! Wherefore shak'st thou at this hour?
The rough barbarian Storms lie all asleep,
And the wild Moon (now hid) hath lost her power
To call forth anger from thee, patient Deep!
Scarcely the worn west-wind is heard to creep
With nurse-like steps about the new-born flower:
The clouds all travel high and bear no shower;
And stars and planets all their sweet watch keep.

Are tidings from beyond the Atlantic blown,-
Mexique ?-Cape Horn ?—or Andes' frozen chain?
Hath the crown'd Thunder left his clouded throne,
And, Jove-like, smit some innocent land in twain?
Or is 't, old Ocean, that thy teeming brain
Gives out great thoughts and dreamings all thine own?

4. A COMMON THOUGHT.

ALL faces melt in smiles and tears,
Stirr'd up by many a passion strange,
(Likings, loathings, wishes, fears,)
Till death:-then ends all change.
Then king and peasant, bride and nun,
Wear but one!

Spring, all beauty, aye laughs loud,
Summers smile, and Autumns rave,
But Winter puts on his white shroud,
And lies down in his grave;

And when the next soft season nears,
He disappears!

Merry Spring for childish face,

Summer for young manhood bold, Autumn for a graver race,

Winter for the old!

After that,-what seasons run?
Alas! not one!

Then all the changing passions fade,

Then all the seasons strange have pass'd,
And over spreads one boundless shade,
Which must for ever last:

Then Life's uncounted sands are run,
And-all is done!

5. THE BLOOD-horse.

GAMARRA is a dainty steed,

Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

But blown abroad by the pride within:
His mane is like a river flowing,

And his eyes like embers glowing

In the darkness of the night,

And his pace as swift as light:

Look!-how round his straining throat

Grace and shifting beauty float,

Sinewy strength is on his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins,—

Richer, redder never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire-
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!
He-who hath no peer-was born
Here, upon a red March morn,
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred;
And the last of that great line
Seemed as of a race divine;-

And yet he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,

By some lone fountain fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived, (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day,)—
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

[B. C.]