She was like summer, with her living gladness, She was like summer, all Jone places filling And earth grew lone; Oh, marvel not her brow is shaded, She who made summer to her heart is gone! THE LADY'S DREAM. From an old magazine, where it appeared anonymously. It is an admirable imitation of the style and sentiment of Hood, and the author, if it was not himself, ought to achieve as great a fame. THE lady in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; From side to side, she mutter'd and moaned, At last she startled up, And gazed on the vacant air, Some dreadful phantom there And then in the pillow she buried her face The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow and shook as she cried, "Oh me! that awful dream! "That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground; And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round,Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound! "And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom : And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride We haste to an early tomb! แ ''For the pomp and pleasure of pride, We toil like Afric slaves, And only to earn a home at last, Where yonder cypress waves; "And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt "Of the hearts that daily break, "Alas! I have walk'd through life Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, Forgetting that even the sparrow falls "I dress'd as the noble dress, In cloth of silver and gold, With silk, and satin, and costly furs, In many an ample fold; But I never remember'd the naked limbs That froze with winter's cold. "The wounds I might have heal'd! But evil is wrought by want of thought, She clasp'd her fervent hands, And yet, oh yet, that many a dame THE LAMENT. By SHELLEY. SWIFTER far than summer's flight, As the earth when leaves are dead, The swallow summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou. My heart each day desires the morrow, Lilies for a bridal bed, Pansies let my flowers be; Waste one hope, one fear for me. SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS IN PRAISE OF PAN. SING his praises that doth keep Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, While the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee Thou that keep'st us chaste and free, As the young spring, Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, SONNET. By SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. COME, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. And if these things, as being thine by right, AUTUMN IN SCOTLAND. A beautiful descriptive passage in the Hon. Mrs. NORTON's poem The Child of the Islands. BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand A yellow glory brightens o'er the land, Shines on thatch'd corners and low cottage-eaves, And gilds with cheerful light the fading leaves: Beautiful, even here, on hill and dale; More lovely yet, where Scotland's soil receives For there the scarlet rowan seems to mock And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall) And far and wide the glorious heather blooms, |