THE FEMALE EXILE. BY MISS. BANNERMAN. YE hills of my country, soft-fading in blue, That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave, Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguiled, Ye shall bloom to the morn, though ye bloom not for me; But never to me shall the summer renew The bowers where the days of my happiness flew; Once more may soft accents your wild echoes fill, To me ye are lost!-but your summits of green As I cleave the dark waves of your rock-rugged shore, From the oak-towering woods on the mountains of home. TO A DEAD EAGLE. BY DELTA. Ir is a desolate eve; Dim, cheerless is the scene my path around;- With vigorous talons clenched, and bright eye shut, As if, though stilled by death, thy heart were unsubdued. How cam'st thou to thy death? Did lapsing years o'ercome, and leave thee weak,- Did scythe-winged lightning flash athwart thy brain, A proud life hath been thine! High on the herbless rock thou 'wok'st to birth, Warm round thy heart, when first thy wings essayed, And, far receded down, the dim material world! How fast-how far-how long Thine had it been from rack-veiled eyrie high The terror-stricken dove Cowered down amid the oak-wood's central shade; That thou, the forest king, wert out upon the gale! When downward glens were dark, And o'er moist earth glowed morning's rosy star, And, oh! how grand to soar Beneath the full moon, on strong pinion driven; To pierce the regions of grey cloud-land o'er, And drift amid the star-isled seas of heaven! Even like a courier sent from earth to hold With space-dissevered worlds, unawed communion bold. Dead king-bird of the waste! And is thy curbless span of freedom o'er? No more shall thine ascending form be traced? While rising o'er the stream-girt vales, thy form, Betwixt thee and dim earth the zig-zag lightnings flee! A child of freedom thou! Thy birthright the tall cliff and sky beyond: The slave and freeman must alike obey: Pride reels; and Power, that kept a world in awe, The dreadful summons hears;—and where are they?— Vanished like night-dreams from the sleeper's mind, Dusk 'mid dissolving day, or thunder on the wind! Literary Souvenir. A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. ALAS! the days of Chivalry are fled! The brilliant tournament exists no more! Our loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore! In those good "olden times," a "ladye bright" Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower. Yet, if one favoured swain would persevere, And he a thousand oaths of love would swear, All picturing her matchless beauty, which He might discern, I ween, not much about, Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch, As she between the lattice bars peeped out. Off then, away he 'd ride o'er sea and land, And dragons fell and mighty giants smite, With the tough spear he carried in his hand: And all to prove himself her own true knight. Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed about the self-same thing; And having ridden hard for each "ladye," They all came back, and met within a ring: Where all the men who were entitled “Syr” And, in the stir up, thrust each other down. And then they galloped round with dire intent, As oft as any of them had a tumble. And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die, Mayhap some fair-one wiped one beauteous eye,- Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain And plighted troth before the motley whole. Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were drest, And when fair daughters bloomed like beauteous flowers, But maidens now from hall and park are brought, Alas! the days of Chivalry are fled! The brilliant tournament exists no more! The Literary Gazette. |