One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes. A fourth, as marble statue-like and still, Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; So pick and choose-perhaps you'll be content A LANDSCAPE. A passage from one of the poems of S. T. COLERIDGE. HERE will I seat myself, beside this old, Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs, The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, That swells its little breast, so full of song, Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, The face, the form divine, the downcast look Contemplative! Behold! her open palm Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by stealth (For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see, The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: And suddenly, as one that toys with time, Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return! And lo! he stays: And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror; and behold Each wildflower on the marge inverted there, And there the half-uprooted tree-but where, O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd Not to thee, O wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale: Save when the shy kingfishers build their nest This be my chosen haunt-emancipate A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages, The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, THE ELEVENTH HOUR. By CALDER CAMPBELL. THE dark, deep river in her sight, Where none, but God, can hear or see! Where not a shadow meets Her worn eyes, but the river deep With dark pools in the darksome night, And promise false of an eternal sleep! Who sent her there? What sent her there The love of man to hatred turn'd, That should have sooner slain By poison, cord, or knife; An easier way to take sad life; To give death, sadly earn'd By too fond trust, too earnest love, Than cruel burthenings of care Heap'd the wrong'd soul and bleeding heart above! What stopp'd her on the dark pool's brink Where human eyes were none to see? What stay'd her from the plunge of dread ? God's tender gaze beheld God's love, by human hate repell'd, Could raise up prayers instead Of dark, hard thoughts; could make her know 'Tis sin from life sin-stain'd to shrink Ere Christ hath wash'd the red soul white as snow! SONNET TO THE AUTHOR OF FESTUS. By JOHN LOCKE. RAPT, while I ponder'd o'er thy witching book, On Spirits unveiled, and shining Powers of Air, Thus some lone watcher on Brazilian seas A gorgeous dawn at midnight-nor can sleep THE COMET. One of the semi-humorous, semi-serious poems of OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE Comet! He is on his way, The whizzing planets shrink before Ah! well may regal orbs burn blue, Ten million cubic miles of head, On, on by whistling spheres of light, He turns not to the left nor right, |