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Transfused, like life, from breast to breast it glows,
Speeds its increasing flight from clime to clime,
THE MAIDENS OF SPAIN.
In BYRON'S Childe Harold the women of Spain are thus eloquently described.
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost?
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?
Yet are Spain's maids, no race of Amazons,
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd
Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!
A delicious lyric by BARRY CORNWALL.
SING a low song!
A tender cradling measure, soft and low,
Not sad, nor long,
But such as we remember long ago,
When Time, now old, was flying
Over the sunny seasons, bright and fleet,
Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet.
Sing o'er the bier!
The bell is swinging in the time-worn tower:
As fresh as manhood in its lustiest hour.
A song to each brief season,
Winter and shining summer, doth belong,—
For some sweet human reason,——
O'er cradle or the coffin still a song.
A lovely picture from Festus, that wondrous poem which has called forth so much admiration and some abuse. It is so brimming over with the richest imagery and thought that GILFILLAN has beautifully
termed it "seed-poetry." PHILIP JAMES BAILEY is the author, and his fame in America far exceeds that which he enjoys in England.
Scene: Water and Wood; Midnight.
FESTUS (alone.) All things are calm and fair and passive. Earth
Looks as if lull'd upon an angel's lap
Into a breathless dewy sleep: so still
Replaces on her breast the pictured moon
Pearl'd round with stars. Sweet-imaged scene of time
Like Deity, where'er in Heaven it dwells.
So win the heart and work upon the mind,
Unless like natured with them? Are great things
And thoughts of the same blood? They have like effect.
THE LAST WISH.
One of the most exquisite of Mrs. HEMANS's poems, full of pathos and natural beauty.
Go to the forest shade,
Seek thou the well-known glade,
Where heavy with sweet dew the violets lie,
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,
And bathed in dews of Summer's midnight sky.
Bring me those buds to shed
A breath of May and of the wood's repose;
For I in sooth depart
With a reluctant heart
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.
Fain would I stay with thee,
Alas! this must not be;
Yet bring me still those gifts of happier hours!
Catches in glassy rest
The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.
I know how softly bright,
Go to the pure stream's edge,
And from its whispering sedge
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow!
Then, as in Hope's young days,
Shedding in sudden snows,
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.
Well know'st thou that fair tree-
Dwells ever in the honied time above:
Bring me one pearly flower
Of all its clustering shower—
Gather one woodbine bough
Then from the lattice low
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,
Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd,
While dews were glancing to the glowworm's spark.
Haste, to my pillow bear
Those fragrant things and fair:
My hand no more may bind them up at eve--
One bright dream round me waft
Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!
And oh! if thou wouldst ask
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace"Tis that some thought of me,
When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.
I bid my image dwell
Rove where we two have roved,
A beautiful sonnet, worthy of preservation, which lately appeared in The Sun, signed, "J. J. BRIGGS."
SILENCE hath set her finger with deep touch
Upon creation's brow. Like a young bride, the moon
How sweet an hour spent in such scenes as this,
When Peace looks down from heaven in plaintive mood And Earth in deep tranquillity of bliss
Becomes a suitor to fair Solitude!
What noble actions spring to flowery prime,
A magnificent panorama from The Roman, by an author who has veiled his real name under the eccentric one of SYDNEY YENDYS; the second word, it will be observed, being merely the first inverted. But there is no reason why he should veil himself. He is entitled to take his place among the best of our modern poets, as this fine passage will prove.
THERE went an incense through the land one night, Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept. (Interlude of music.)