Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven.

A HAPPY HOUR.

Oh! what a joy to feel that in my breast
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay
Still pure, though heavily and long-repress'd
By early-blighted leaves, which o'er their way
Dark summer-storms had heap'd! But free, glad
play

Once more was given them;-to the sunshine's glow
And the sweet wood-song's penetrating flow,

And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn odours, forth they sprung, Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o'er them hung,

And of immortal life!-a germ, unwrought In childhood's soul to power, now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene!

MRS. HEMANS.

NIGHT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BRANNER.

GATHER, ye sullen thunder clouds;
Your wings, ye lightnings, wave,

Like Spirits bursting from their shrouds :

And howl, thou wild and dreary storm,
Like echoes of the grave,

Sounds of the brothers of the worm.

Ay, wilder still, ye thunders, roll,
Ye lightnings, cleave the ground:
Ye cannot shake the Christian soul:

In God's high strength she sits sublime,
Though worlds were dust around;
Defying Chance, outliving Time.

THE LONELY HEART.

THEY tell me I am happy-and
I try to think it true;
They say I have no cause to weep,
My sorrows are so few;
That in the wilderness we tread,
Mine is a favour'd lot;
My petty griefs all fantasies,
Would I but heed them not.

It may be so; the cup of life
Has many a bitter draught,
Which those who drink with silent lips
Have smiled on while they quaff'd.
It may be so; I cannot tell

What others have to bear,
But sorry should I be to give
Another heart my share.

They bid me to the festive board,
I go a smiling guest,

Their laughter and their revelry

Are torture to my breast;
They call for music, and there comes
Some old familiar strain;
I dash away the starting tear,
Then turn-and smile again.

But oh! my heart is wandering
Back to my father's home,
Back to my sisters at their play,
The meadows in their bloom,

The blackbird on the scented thorn,
The murmuring of the stream,
The sounds upon the evening breeze,
Like voices in a dream;

The watchful eyes that never more
Shall gaze upon my brow,

The smiles-Oh! cease that melody,
I cannot bear it now!

And heed not when the stranger sighs,
Nor mark the tears that start,
There can be no companionship

For loneliness of heart!

SARAH STICKNEY.

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

WHY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That ev'ry body knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons

I'm ever on the watch;

I've hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, Alas! he won't propose !

I've tried to win by languishing

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books, and talk'd of them As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux ;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And, oh! they won't propose !

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;

And so

lisp'd out naught beyond

Plain "yeses" or plain "noes,"
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I propose again ;"
I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,
I blush'd like any rose;
But, oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose!

And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh! what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one:

At balls I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why won't the men propose, mamma?

Why won't the men propose?

T. H. BAILEY.

THE NAUTILUS.

LIKE an ocean breeze afloat
In a little pearly boat-
Pearl within, and round about,
And a silken streamer out,
Over the sea, over the sea,
Merrily, merrily, saileth he!

Not for battle, not for pelf,
But to pleasure his own self,
Sails he on for many a league,
Nor knoweth hunger nor fatigue:
Past many a rock, past many a shore,
Nor shifts a sail, nor lifts an oar:
Oh! the joy of sailing thus-
Like a brave old Nautilus!

Thou didst laugh at sun and breeze
On the new-created seas:

Thou wast with the dragon broods
In the old sea-solitudes,
Sailing in the new-made light
With the curled-up Ammonite!
Thou survived the awful shock
That turn'd the ocean bed to rock,
And changed its myriad living swarms
To the marble's veined forms-

Thou wast there!-thy little boat,
Airy voyager, kept afloat

O'er the waters wild and dismal,
O'er the yawning gulfs abysmal;
Amid wreck and overturning-
Rock-imbedding-heaving, burning!
'Mid the tumult and the stir,
Thou, most ancient mariner,
In that pearly boat of thine,

Sat'st upon the troubled brine!

MARY HOWITT

THE ORPHAN BALLAD-SINGERS.

Он, weary, weary are our feet,

And weary, weary is our way;

Through many a long and crowded street
We've wander'd mournfully to-day.