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From COWLEY'S Ode to Solitude.
HERE let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
And see how prettily they sinile,
Ah! wretched and too solitary he,
AN ODE TO SPRING.
Now the golden morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She woos the tardy spring;
Till April starts and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground;
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tend'rest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,
Yesterday the sullen year
See the wretch, that long has tost
THE GOLDEN GRAVE.
An old Irish legend has been thus beautifully translated by L. E. L. (Miss LANDON.)
He sleeps within his lonely grave
Upon the lonely hill,
There sweeps the wind-there swells the wave
All other sounds are still.
And strange and mournfully sound they;
Each seems a funeral cry,
O'er life that long has past away,
O'er ages long gone by.
One winged minstrel's left to sing
The humming bee, that seeks in spring
It is the sole familiar sound
That ever rises there;
For silent is the haunted ground,
There never comes the merry bird,
For there the shrouded Banshee stands,
And wrings her dim and shadowy hands,
Seven pillars, grey with time and moss,
A lofty moat denotes the place
There Gollah sleeps-the golden band
And twice three golden rings are placed
Upon that hand of fear;
The smallest would go round the waist
Of any maiden here.
And plates of gold are on his breast;
A king, he taketh kingly rest
Beneath that royal mound.
But wealth no more the mountain fills
As in the days of
Gone are those days; the wave distils
Its liquid gold no more.
The days of yore-still let my harp
The days when every sword was sharp,
THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRESIDE.
This is from a well-known book called Queechy, by Miss WETHERELL, an American authoress.
By the old hearthstone a spirit dwells,
The child of bygone years
He lieth hid, the stone amid,
And liveth on smiles and tears.
But when the night is drawing on,
He goeth round on tiptoe soft
And scanneth close each face;
And then with fingers cool and soft
(Their touch who does not know?)
With water brought from the well of thought
He layeth his hand on the weary eyes;