The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast

the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of

ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers, BRYANT.

110.--THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and grassy brine.
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow:
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their bows where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;
There with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore :
Then far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

PERCIVAL.

111.-LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES.

"Missolonghi, Jan. 23, 1824.

"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year."

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move;

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone,

The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze ;-

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain,

And power of love, I cannot share;
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here it is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now

Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece-she is awake!

Awake, my spirit, -think through whom

My life-blood tastes it parent lake-
And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood unto thee, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret thy youth,-why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

BYRON.

112.-THE BUGLE.

But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle note,
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast.

Lady of the Lake.

O! WILD enchanting horn !
Whose music up the deep and dewy air
Swells to the clouds, and calls on echo there,
Till a new melody is born.

Wake, wake again, the night
Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense, and eloquently bright.

Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song,
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long,
Barks at the melancholy moon.

Hark! how it sweeps away,
Soaring and dying on the silent sky,
As if some sprite of sound went wandering by,

With lone halloo and roundelay!

Swell, swell in glory out!

Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start,
As boyhood's old remember'd shout.

O! have ye heard that peal,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,

Like some near breath around you steal?

Or have ye in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,
Where wings and tempests never soar ?

Go, go-no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,
On midnight's fathomless profound!

113.-A HEALTH.

MELLEN.

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than

heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each

flows

As one may see the burden'd bee forth issue from the rose

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours, Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young

flowers;

And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns-the idol of past years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but

hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon-
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of

such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

PINKNEY.

114.--EXTRACT FROM MR. WEBSTER'S SPEECH, AT THE DINNER IN HONOUR OF THE MEMORY OF WASHINGTON, IN THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, FEBRUARY 22, 1832.

I RISE, gentlemen, to propose to you the name of that great man, in commemoration of whose birth, and in honour of whose character and services, we have here assembled.

I am sure that I express a sentiment common to every one present when I say, that there is something more than ordinarily solemn and affecting on this occasion.

We are met to testify our regard for him, whose name is intimately blended with whatever belongs most essentially to the prosperity, the liberty, the free institutions, and the renown of our country. That name was of power to rally a nation, in the hour of thick-thronging public disasters and calamities; that name shone, amid the storm of war, a beacon light, to cheer and guide the country's friends; its flame, too, like a meteor, to repel her foes. That name, in the days of peace, was a loadstone, attract