CHILDREN. How abounding in the sweetest and most wholesome sentiment, how truthful in conception, how poetical in description, is this passage from the Hon. Mrs. NORTON's Child of the Islands. YES, deem her mad! for holy is the sway Of that mysterious sense which bids us bend Toward the young souls new clothed in helpless clayFragile beginnings of a mighty end Angels unwing'd-which human care must tend, Therefore we pray for them, when sunset brings With hush'd, soft steps and earnest eyes that shed We bless them; while, by guileless pleasure led, Their voices echo in their gleesome play, And their whole careless souls are making holiday. And if, by Heaven's inscrutable decree, Death calls, and human skill is vain to save : If the bright child, that clamber'd to our knee, Cold and inactive fills the silent grave, Then with what wild lament we moan and rave! What passionate tears fall down in ceaseless shower. There lies perfection !—there of all life gaveThe bud that would have proved the sweetest flower That ever woke to bloom within an earthly bower! For in this hope our intellects abjure All reason-all experience-and forego Belief in that which only is secure, Our natural chance and share of human woe; But for himself such augury defies; No future Absalom his love can know : No pride, no passion, no rebellion lies In the unsullied depth of those delightful eyes! Their innocent faces open like a book, Full of sweet prophecies of coming good; Read what we most desire, not what we should, Nor ever can a parent's gaze behold For these (with judgment true, severe and cold) The mother looketh from her latticed pane Her children's voices echoing sweet and clear; For while the strong and lovely round her press, Yea, where the soul denies illumined grace, Thinks she perceives a dawn of intellect; Still loving, hoping-patient, though deject, Years of rebellion cannot blot it out: The prodigal returning from afar Still finds a welcome given with song and shout! The father's hand, without reproach or doubt, NIAGARA. These lines were written by the classical and poetical Lord MORPETH, now Earl of CARLISLE, in the Guide Book, at the Falls. They are entitled to preservation in a more permanent place of abode. THERE's nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall, Oh may the wars that madden in thy deeps There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps, And till the conflict of thy surges cease The Nations on thy bank repose in peace. THE SONG OF MUSIC. Another of the delicious songs from MOORE's Lalla Rookh. FROM Chindara's warbling fount I come, From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, Where lutes in the air are heard about, For mine is the lay that lightly floats, Mine is the charm whose mystic sway With the blissful tone that's still on the ear; To a note more heavenly still that is near! The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, As his own white plume, that high amid death When music has reach'd her inward soul, Like the silent stars that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal melodies roll! Then hither I come, from my fairy home, THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT. A remarkable fragment by SHELLEY, exhibiting his very peculiar and mystical train of thought, wealth of words, and delicate sense of rhythm and melody. It will be read with great interest, and cannot fail to be admired by all lovers of true poetry. SLEEP on! sleep on! forget thy pain ; My spirit on thy brain, My pity on thy heart, poor friend, The powers of life, and like a sign Sleep on! sleep on! I love thee not; Who made and makes my lot Sleep! sleep! and with the slumber of Forget thy life and woe; Forget that thou must wake for ever, Forget the world's dull scorn, Forget lost health and the divine Feelings that die in youth's brief morn, And forget me, for I can never Like a cloud big with a May shower, |