To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own:

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
Like green waves on the sea;
As still as is the silent deep
The ocean-woods may be.

How calm it was! the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew,
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seem'd from the remotest seat
Of the wide mountain waste,

To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced.
A spirit interfused around,
A thrilling silent life;
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;

And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there,

Was one fair form that fill'd with love
The lifeless atmosphere.

The white sun, twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen,

Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green:

And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,

An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.

John Clare.

Born 1793.
Died 1864.

An uneducated English poet, born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, in 1793. His parents were in the meanest circumstances, and he only obtained some education by his extra work on the farm, and by the benevolence of an exciseman, who gave him lessons. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, which created some attention; and a number of noblemen and gentlemen became interested in the career of the young poet. In 1821 he published another volume of poems. His affairs shortly after became embarrassed, and amid the wreck of his fortunes his mind gave way, and he was placed in a private asylum, where he died in 1864.

DAWNINGS OF GENIUS.

In those low paths which poverty sorrounds,
The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds--
That necessary tool of wealth and pride—

While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side,
Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace

The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,
The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;
And often bent, as o'er some magic spell,
He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell:
Raptures the while his inward powers inflame,
And joys delight him which he cannot name ;
Ideas picture pleasing views to mind,
For which his language can no utterance find;
Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight,
Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;
So while the present please, the past decay,
And in each other, losing, melt away.
Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,

He feels enraptured, though he knows not why;
And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain,
And dwells on something which he can't explain.
The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed
Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;
Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain,
And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.
So have I marked the dying ember's light,
When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,
With glimmering glow oft redden up again,
And sparks crack brightening into life in vain ;
Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,
Till faint and fainting, the last twinkle dies.

Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart,
Its painful, pleasing feelings to impart;
Till by successless sallies wearied quite,
The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight:
The wick, confined within its socket, dies,
Born down and smothered in a thousand sighs

William M'Comb.

Born 1793.
Died 1873.

A NATIVE of Coleraine, born 17th August 1793. At the early age of thirteen he left school, and was put to business. After hoiding different situations for some years, he began business as a bookseller in Belfast, and for many years was the leading bookseller there. In 1817, Mr M'Comb published his first volume of poetry, "The Dirge of O'Neill." This was followed by "The School of the Sabbath," in 1822. During many succeeding years, his muse produced only occasional pieces, many of which, however, had a wide circulation. In 1849 was published as the fruit of his matured mind, "The Voice of a Year, and other Poems." Fugitive pieces connected with passing events appeared from time to time till his death in September 1873.

"THE STILL SMALL VOICE."
1 Kings xix. 11, 12.

HE cometh, he cometh! the Lord passeth by;
The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh;
The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast:
But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast

He cometh, He cometh! the Lord he is near;
The earth it is reeling, all nature's in fear;
The earthquake's approaching, with terrible form,
But the Lord of Sabaoth is not in the storm.

He cometh, He cometh! the Lord is in ire;
The smoke is ascending, the mount is on fire;
O say, is Jehovah revealing his name!
He is near, but Jehovah is not in the flame.

He cometh, He cometh! the tempest is o'er;
He is come, neither tempest nor storm shall be more;
All nature reposes--earth, ocean, and sky,
Are still as the voice that descends from on high.

How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace,
When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease
When the welcome of mercy falls soft on the ear,
"Come hither, ye laden—ye weary, draw near!”

There is rest for the soul that on Jesus relies,
There's a home for the homeless prepared in the skies;
There's a joy in believing, a hope and a stay,
That the world cannot give, nor the world take away.

O had I the wings of a dove I would fly,

And mount on the pinions of faith to the sky,

Where the still and small breathing to earth that was given Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven.

Mrs Hemans.

Born 1793

Died 1834.

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, 25th September 1793, of respectable parents, who afterwards removed to St Asaph, in Wales. So early as the age of fifteen, she published a volume of poetry; and two years later, "The Domestic Affections, and other Poems." This volume brought her into immediate notice. The same year she married Captain Hemans. The marriage seems not to have been a very happy one, for, after the birth of five children, her husband set out on a visit to Italy, and they never met again. In 1819 she published "Sir William Wallace," a poem; and from this time till her death, a constant series of her works issued from the press. It is said of her, "that few nave written so much and so well as she." About the year 1830, she removed to Dublin, where she superintended the education of her five boys, and where she died on 26th April 1834.

THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

THE wine month shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime
Than the vintage music rung-

A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long--
But amidst his Alp-domains,

The herdsman's arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rang the while.

But on the misty height

Where the mountain people stood

There was stillness as of night,

When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear-

While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound these columns bright

Between the lake and wood,

But they looked not to the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown,
Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong!

They came like lauwine hurled

From Alp to Alp in play,