See Plate.

THE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that

The winds were lovesick with them: the oars were silver;

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water, which they beat, to follow faster,

As a stream from its native fount, that ne'er
Was aught but bright and free,

And feared no future winter's frost,
Nor the sands where mightier waves were lost.

And we, who look from the lattice pane
Or the lowly cottage door,

On lengthening eves and budding trees,-
As comes thy breath on the day's last breeze,
Bringing its dew-like memories

son,

It beggared all description: she did lie
In her pavilion, (cloth of gold, of tissue,)
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see,
The fancy outwork nature; on each side her,
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse-color'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings; at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthron'd in the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on, Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.

THE VIOLET'S WELCOME.

THE world hath a welcome yet for thee,
Thou earliest born of flowers!-
Though many a golden hope was gone,
And dream that lighted her rosy dawn,
Ere the toil of these latter days came on;
And her weary children's steps have strayed
From their first green dwelling, in the shade
Of Eden's blessed bowers,

Too far to find on our earth a track
That yet might guide the wanderers back.

But still from her bright youth's memory comes
A voice to welcome thee:

It sounds in the song of the early bird, Through waking woods by the south winds stirred,

When the steps of the coming Spring are heard;

Through the clouds which time hath gathered there,

From green haunts sought no more,
But ever known by the light that lies
Upon them from life's morning skies,—

We know thy home, where the waving fern
With the moss-clad fountain chimes;
But we greet thee not with the joy of yore,
When our souls went forth to meet thee, o'er
Far hills which the earliest verdure wore :-
We have hoped in many a spring since then,
But they never brought to our hearts again
Those vanished violet times,

With their blooms, which it seemed no blight could mar,

The early shed and the scattered far!

Gather them back, ye mighty years,
That bring the woods their leaves !-
Back from life's unreturning streams-
Back from the graves that haunt our dreams,
And the living lost, from whose lips our names
Have passed-as the songs of greener bowers
And the tones of happier years from ours,-
From all the faith that cleaves

To the broken reeds of this changeful clime,
Gather them back, restoring Time!

Alas! the violets may return,
As in Springs remembered long;
But for us Time's wing can only spread
The snows that long on the heart are shed,
Ere yet their whiteness reach the head!
Thou comest to the waste and wold,
But not, like us, to grow sad and old,-
Wild flower of hope and song!

We bless thee for our childhood's sake,-
For the light of the eyes no more to wake,-
For memories green as a laurel crown,
That link thee to dreams like stars gone down,
And the spots we loved when our love was free,-
Each heart hath a welcome yet for thee!

FRANCES BROWN.

280

LOOK HOW MY BABY LAUGHS!

BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS.

Ir is a lovely sight to see
An infant laugh delightedly;
But lovelier the silent smile
In the rapt mother's eye the while
To mark. The pupils wide dilated
Reveal her heart's intoxicated
With a pleasure inexpressive,
Yet, at the same time, excessive;
Quite, quite a transcendental joy
At the merriness of that blest boy!

A vision I beheld like this,
And, oh! methought no terrene bliss
Could ever equal such a scene;
Nor Cupid and the Paphian queen,
In beauty match the artless pair,
That revell'd in enjoyment there;
The mother a mere girl indeed-
The babe just from his swaddlings freed—
One as the other, innocent,
An angel o'er a cherub bent.

Her sweet employment a blush brought,
Which must in the moss-rose be sought,
Upon her cheek. A pearlier hue,
Just pencill'd with faint veins of blue,
Her infant's wore,-the stranger sun
Not yet a ruddier tint had won ;
As careless on her lap he sat,
He look'd one DIMPLING heap of fat,
Unform'd-but beautiful-a thing
Of Carricci's imagining!

Her gorgeous hair, with sportive grace,
She shook in her young upturn'd face;
The dancing curls, like flashing light,
So radiant-so intensely bright,
He snatch'd, yet his imperfect hold,
Could not retain those threads of gold;
So, with affected force she drew
The curls from his soft fingers through.
"Look! how he laughs! look, only look!"
And then again her curls she shook.

Oh! magic curls! Oh! Beauty's dower!
Awak'ning with enchanting power,
The gladdest laugh in infant mirth,
That e'er resounded from the earth
To the blue skies,-to echoed be
By kindred seraphs pure as he!
It was a picture passing fair,
And, bless'd be God, by no means rare,
For the SAME ineffable joy

Each mother feels,-and too, her boy.

LET THE DEAD SLUMBER SOFTLY.

LET the dead slumber softly, recall not a name
That breathes to the living an echo of shame;
If souls must account for the ills they have done,
'Tis sinful to murmur the race they have run!

But, oh! if their deeds were the sunshine of life,

If they lived far apart from seduction and strife,

If they charm'd the rude world, and sooth'd down its pain,—

Oh, name them for ever, again and again!

I love those who lend to their country a charm, Who can soothe every sorrow and ward off each harm,

Who can guide through each fierce-rolling tempest that blows

The weak bark of life that is loaded with woes! Then tell me of those who are offsprings of Fame,

Who have left in our breasts their endearment and name;

These charm'd the cold world and smooth'd down its pain,

Oh, name them for ever, again and again!

Oh, speak not of tyrants who ruled with the rod; Of oppression, that crush'd every flower where it trod;

Of minions, who bent low the knee to the same, And made them more bold in their actions of shame!

Such men are a curse to the earth we enjoy,
Inventors of discord and friends of alloy;

So tell me of those who have charm'd all our

pain

Oh, name them for ever, again and again!

THE BAPTISM AND THE BRIDAL.

BY A DREAMER.

1.

MYSTIC rites are thine, O Death, Baptism and the bridal wreath!

Pale and wan, on weary bed,

A dying maiden drooped her head.

Her large eyes gleam with spectral light, The dizzy world swims through her sight!

Her long dark tresses fall unbound In wavy coils the pillow round.

Fitful flushes stain the skin
That rivalled mountain snows within.

And where her thin form lies unseen,
The couch and coverlet between,
You scarce could mark the place, I ween.

Weeping friends are standing round,
Stifled sobs the mother drowned;

But manlier grief the father heldHis lips close-pent his tears repelled.

"Fling the casement open wide, O mother dear," the maiden cried;

"Let the glorious sunlight pour
Its streamings on my face once more;

"And the breath of wind-kissed flowers, Thoughts will bring of childhood's hours

"Sunny hours of meadow-playing, Streamlet plashing, forest-straying.

"Ah! the change from life-full gladness, To this weary hour of sadness.

"Lift me! closer yet behold me. Father! while thine arms enfold me, Scarce the sickness seems to hold me!

"And, mine own true love! draw near, Whom I loved this many a year.

Henry! wilt in time to come
Think upon my early doom?

"Future years will come and go, Each will bring its joy and woe,

"But the memory of the dead, Passes with the tears ye shed Vainly o'er the buried head;

"And the grave once strewed with flowers, Rank weeds shows in after hours.

"Dear! I loved with passion's dream, Till this lovely world did seem Steeped in heaven's own lustrous gleam;

"And I deemed no vows of mine Worthy that deep love of thine, Which my being did enshrine.

"Now a voice hath summoned me, And I go away from thee.

"Death-dewed hours hope not to bear

Rose wreaths, such as brides should wear!"

Now the light of those dear lips Fades before a dense eclipse.

Low and faint her broken tones
Sink away in empty moans.

Fainter yet her breath is given-
Ha! that frame asunder riven
By a soul which springs to heaven.

And the dulled and glazing eye
Straight has done with agony.

DEATH, the mighty lord, stood near,
Unseen, yet felt in nerveless fear.

The thickened dew-beads on her brow,
He sprinkled from his gaunt hand now.

"Thus I vow thee mine," he cried, "Here the badge is certified.

"Here in garments white as snow, I pledge thee at the fountain's flowMy baptism this cold sweat, I trow!"

11.

Thrice the sun hath risen again,
Thrice he sank beneath the main.
Within the coffin's cold embrace
Her calmly-sleeping form they place;

And that casket now doth hold
Treasure more than gems or gold.

Lift her gently, bear her slowly
To her rest in churchyard holy.
What a burst of light doth pour,
As they issue through the door
Forth to the bright world once more!

Forth to that sweet breathing earth
Where her gentle joys had birth.

Ah! her own loved birds are here,
Long they've wished her to appear.
Long they watched with patience vain
The summons to her window-pane.

Long they sung their blithest lays;
But no kind voice spoke in praise-
No white hand the bolt did raise.

And her flowers-her little flowersHow they droop, these sultry hours!

Dear ones, that she loved to cherish, Soon like her ye too will perish.

Well she loved your beauteous dyes, Colored by the summer skies.

Cross the meadows-bear her slowly To her sleep in churchyard holy.

Now the greenwood paths are near, Soon the church-tower will appear.

Hark! the distant fitful swell
Of the solemn passing bell.

Now the hallowed ground they tread
Slowly with uncovered head.

Virgins four-and-twenty bore
The tasselled pall to the church-door ;

And from rush-wove baskets strewed
Flowers for hapless maidenhood-

Pansies, love-cups, violets blue,
Lilies, roses of each hue.

Now within that sacred wall,
Slowly pass the mourners all.

On the trestles in the aisle Rest the coffin for awhile.

Softly, gently lay her down;
"Tis to slumber she has gone-

Slumber sweet that fears no breaking,
Rest that brings no tears at waking.

See, the reverend priest doth stand With prayer-book open in his hand.

Tears flow down his furrowed cheek, While the holy man doth speak

In prayer to God-the heart's appealing
For the wounded spirit's healing.

Thankful blessings also given
For a sister passed to heaven.

"Dust to dust," that solemn wordHow the beating heart is stirred While dust is on the coffin poured!

DEATH, the mighty lord, stood near, With sparkling eyes fixed on the bier.

"Maiden mine, my youthful bride! Here our troth is ratified.

"Priestly blessing nought may sever; Marriage vows stand fast for ever.

"To fond embrace I welcome thee, Our bridal-bed the grave shall be, Where thou shalt slumber noiselessly!”

A SPRING CAROL.

THE spring's free sunshine falleth
Like balm upon the heart;
And care and fear, dull shadows!
Are hastening to depart.
Oh! time of resurrection

From sadness unto bliss;
From death, decay, and silence,
To loveliness like this.
Oh! season of rejoicing,

That fills my heart and brain
With visions such as never,
Methought, should come again.
Oh! blessed time, renewing

The light that childhood wore; Till thought, and hope, and feeling, Grow earnest as of yore!

Though youth has faded from me,
Perchance before its time,
Like a flower, pale and blighted,
Amid its gayest prime;
Though now I value lightly
The noisy joys of life,
And deem it vain ambition,
A mad and useless strife,
Thank God! the fount of feeling
Hath deep, exhaustless springs,
And the love once poured so freely
On frail and worldly things,

Is now more freely given

To the blossoms of the sod, So the trees, whose leafy branches Are whispering of God.

The young green lime bends o'er me,
Through its boughs the sunbeams pass,
Making here and there bright islands
'Mid the shadows on the grass.
The butterfly is wending

Its way from flower to flower,
Like a freed and happy spirit-
Meet emblem of such hour!
Loud sings the hidden cuckoo
In his bow'r of leaves all day,
And many a voice of gladness
Is answering his lay.
The rose is opening slowly,

The lilac's scented cones
Are musical till nightfall,

With the wild-bees' drowsy tones.

The oaks, moss-grown and aged,
How beautiful they seem;
With glory wrapt about them,
Like the glory of a dream!
How lovingly the sunshine

Clings round the tufts of green;
And all is fair and joyful

As if winter had not been!
Far off, the furze is blooming,
With spaces, far and near,
Of lawn, where now are straying
Large herds of graceful deer;
And turfy pathways wending

Through sunshine and through shade, And wooded hills enfolding

This lovely forest glade.

I turn, and see the fruit-trees

With blossoms pink and white,
Like gems of Eastern story
In the gardens of delight;
And strewn like fairy favors
Are flowers of every hue
Among the grasses shining,
Red, yellow, white, and blue.
The pines, so tall and regal,

Their shadowy branches wave, Like plume-crown'd pillows standing Round a mighty monarch's grave. Less sorrowful than stately

Those dark unbending trees
Give out a silv'ry murmur
To the gentle evening breeze.

In this season of life's triumph

Man's spirit hath a share, It can see the grave unclosing, Yet feel all ends not there. It smiles to see the conquest Of beauty o'er decay, With the merry lark up-soaring It greets the dawning day. Not vainly by such gladness The poet's heart is stirred, These sights and sounds not vainly By him are seen and heard. All fears that crowded o'er him, Like clouds asunder roll, Spring's hope and joyful promise Sink deep into his soul.