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THE GANGES.

When he who at the Nile allayed his thirst

Was Egypt's son ;

And when, where'er its sacred streams were found,
That was Egyptian ground!

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

THE GANGES.

THE skies are fair in southern France,
And brightly glows an English June;
And o'er the ocean's wide expanse

How gently smiles the cloudless moon.
In the mild tropic-but there's not,

Beneath the eternal heaven, a spot,

O'er which the sun, the moon, and sky,

Display a lovelier radiancy,

Than where the sacred Ganges flows-

Land of the bulbul and the rose !

If its green banks have e'er been red,
Those times of havoc now have fled;
And peace, conjoined with plenty, reigns
Perennial 'mid those favoured plains.

Around, how tranquil is the scene;
The air how clear, the sward how green!
O'er all a luscious languor thrown,

In the bright noon of that warm zone,
Impels each youth and gentle maid.

To seek the near and various shade.

THE GANGES.

Here towers the straight, umbrella'd palm,
Moveless, though high-the air's so calm ;
And, more removed, yet near the stream,
Stand the think mango groves, which seem
Like those all-hallowed bowers, where gods
In Rome's young days had their abodes.
There the Briarean banyan spreads

His hundred arms, and round him sheds,
O'er roods of ground wide sheltering boughs,
Fit place for young love's timid vows.
The light-leaved tamarind, more aloof,
O'ershades the white pagoda's roof,
'Neath which the tinkling, silvery bells,
Denote that there the Brahmin dwells,
In vain belief his god can hear
Prayers which, though erring, are sincere.
And you may see some Moslem tomb
Which pious cares each night illume,
With one small light, that gleams afar,
In twinkling beauty, like a star;
And every hedge and copse is bright
With the quick fire-fly's playful light;

Like thousands of the sparkling gems,

Which blaze in eastern diadems.

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There is no twilight there, but day

So brightly vanishes away,

That its reflection serves to light,

For some brief time, the shades of night;
And mellows down what else were gloom
To a sweet, clear, obscure. The doom

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FAREWELL TO RIVILIN.

Of many an anxious girl is sealed
At that lone hour, as (all revealed
Her lover's fate) the little boat,

With its pale light, may sink or float!
Along the river's dazzling track,

The boatmen guides his slow oolack;
Or urges on, with speedier oar,

The light canoe along the shore;

While heavily upon its breast,

The lazy budjras nightly rest.

M'NAGHTEN.

FAREWELL TO RIVILIN.

EAUTIFUL River! goldenly shining

Where with the cistus woodbines are twining;
(Birklands around thee, mountains above thee),
Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee!

Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River?
Love thee, and leave thee? Leave thee for ever?
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee!

Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!

Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming.

Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!

Playfully mingling laughter and sadness,
Ribbledin's Sister! sad in thy gladness.

A RIVER.

Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing,
Man is a shadow? River undying!
Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth,

E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth.

Oh, when thy poet weary, reposes,
Coffined in slander, far from thy roses,
Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking River!
Tell them I loved thee-love thee for ever!

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal ;
River of Beauty! love is eternal; .

While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven,

Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven.

There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming

Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!

Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me,

Glad as the heath-flower, glowing to meet thee.

ELLIOTT.

A RIVER.

HOU art the poet of the woods, fair river,

A lover of the beautiful, and still

Wand'rest by wildest scenes, while night stars quiver,

The only voice that haunts the desert hill :-

Thou art the poet of the woods, whose lay

Charms the dim forest on thy sylvan way.

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Thou art the artist of the vale, bright river,

That paint'st the glowing hues of earth and sky On thine own pure and placid breast for ever;

Two worlds of beauty on thy waters lie; Thou'rt Nature's boldest painter-broad and free, And human genius ne'er surpasseth thee.

Thou art the minstrel of the fields, sweet river,
Whose music lingers like an angel's tongue,
A voice that sings the glory of the Giver!
Creation's first, sublimest birth of song!

Still let my soul thy liquid music hear,
Oh, sweet musician, voice for ever dear!

CHARLES SWAIN.

SONG.

HE nightingale is warbling.
Her anthem to the rose,

The glowworm's lamp is gleaming

Where the woodruff sweetly blows. The rocks are clad in moonlight,

But the river sings in shade;

And the flashing rills, like fairies,
Go dancing down the glade.

It is the hour of feeling;

When the spirit pours its stream
Of happy thoughts, revealing

The light of passion's dream.