The white owl in my chamber dreams all day, What hollow gusts through broken casements stream, Their dull white deadly eyes, turning, pursue me still. And when a dreary slumber o'er me creeps, The old house-clock rings out its measured sound, I hear a warning in the march it keeps; Anon the rusty vane turns round and round: These are sad tones, for desolation calls, And ruin loudly roars around my father's halls. The fish-ponds now are mantled o'er with green, No oxen lowing o'er the winding leas; No steeds neigh out, no flocks bleat from the fold; And dance and song within these walls have sounded, Such things have been, and now are gliding past, LEISURE AND LOVE. A playful and graceful little poem by LAMAN BLANCHARD, SOOTH 'twere a pleasant life to lead, Pleasant to breathe beside a brook, And count the bubbles-love-worlds-there, To slumber in some leafy nook, And then, a draught of Nature's wine, Give me to live with love alone, And let the world go dine and dress; AN END. From a periodical called The Germ, which was blighted in the bud. 'The writer was Miss CHRISTINA G. ROSETTI. LOVE, strong as death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers; A green turf at his head, In the quiet evening hours. He was born in the spring, On the last warm summer day He is gone away. To few chords, and sad, and low, Be our eyes fix'd on the grass, A BIRTH-DAY LYRIC. These stanzas are taken from one of the American papers, the Literary World, published at New York. LEAD me 'mong blossoms white And let the charméd air, With luscious tone, Soothe me with strains unknown. Oh! heap the blossoms sweet About my face and feet, Till half the blushing sky, And the nook wherein I lie, With rose-light and low melody ;- Oh, radiant land! where my young eyes How soon-too soon! The burning Noon Drank all thy dew from bud and leaf, The drifting sands before me spread I faint with fighting wrong and sin; I may come forth more firm and strong A DREAM OF RESURRECTION. The following very original poem appeared some time ago anonymously in Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, whence it is extracted. So heavenly beautiful it lay, It was less like a human corse Than that fair shape in which perforce The dream show'd very plain: the bed A something lost, on this side life, By which the mourner came and stood, Shred off, like votive locks of hair, No tears fell-but a gaze, fix'd, long, Then kisses dropping without sound; And solemn arms wound round the dead; Into the coffin's strange new bound; Yet still no parting-no belief In death; no more than we believe In some dread falsehood that would weave And still, unanswer'd kisses; still, Had wash'd the blindness from our eyes. Come back into the upper day! Dash off those cerements! Patient shroud, Clasp arms! Cling, soul! Eyes, drink anew, Faith, that out-loved this perishing, YE ARE NOT MISSED, FAIR FLOWERS. By Mrs. HEMANS. YE are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding, Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving |