Chorus Hymeneal,

Or triumphal chaut,

Match'd with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but never knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

ALICE RAY.-MRS. SARAH J. HALE

The birds their love-notes warble
Among the blossomed trees;

The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honeybees;

The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor

Goes dancing on its way

But not a thing is so like spring

As happy Alice Ray.

An only child was Alice,

And, like the blest above,

The gentle maid had ever breathed

An atmosphere of love;

Her father's smile like sunshine came,
Like dew her mother's kiss;

Their love and goodness made her home,
Like heaven, the place of bliss.

Beneath such tender training

The joyous child had sprung,

Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, And gladness round her flung;

And all who met her blessed her,

And turned again to pray,

That grief and care might ever spare

The happy Alice Ray.

The gift that made her charming

Was not from Venus caught;

Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived
From majesty of thought:

Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown,
Her hair without a curl-

But then her eyes were love-lit stars,
Her teeth as pure as pearl.

And when in merry laughter

Her sweet, clear voice was heard,

It welled from out her happy heart
Like carol of a bird:

And all who heard were moved to smiles,

As at some mirthful lay,

And, to the stranger's look, replied,

"Tis that dear Alice Ray."

And so she came, like sunbeams

That bring the April green

As type of nature's royalty,

They called her "Woodburn's queen!" A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness,

Like springtime of the year,

Seemed ever on her steps to wait-
No wonder she was dear.

Her world was ever joyous-
She thought of grief and pain

As giants of the olden time,

That ne'er would come again; The seasons all had charms for her, She welcomed each with joyThe charm that in her spirit lived No changes could destroy.

Her love made all things lovely,

For in the heart must live

The feeling that imparts the charm-
We gain by what we give.

SHAKSPEARE-CHARLES SPRAGUE.

Then Shakspeare rose!-
Across the trembling strings
His daring hand he flings,

And lo! a new creation glows!-

There clustering round, submissive to his will,
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil.

Madness, with his frightful scream,

Vengeance, leaning on his lance,
Avarice, with his blade and beam,

Hatred, blasting with a glance,

Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars,

And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet adores.

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit,
Waking Laughter's merry swell,
Arm-in-arm with fresh-eyed Wit,

That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell.
From the feudal tower pale Terror rushing,
Where the prophet bird's wail

Dies along the dull gale,

And the sleeping monarch's blood is gushing.

Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream,

Kissed by the virgin moon's cold beam,

Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes,

And swan-like there her own dirge breathes.

Then broken-hearted sinks to rest,

Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast.

Young Love, with eye of tender gloom,
Now drooping o'er the hallowed tomb

Where his plighted victims lie,

Where they met, but met to die :

And now, when crimson buds are sleeping,
Through the dewy arbor peeping,

Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot,

To youth's devoted tale is listening,

Rapture on her dark lash glistening,

While fairies leave their cowslip cells, and guard the happy spot.

Thus rise the phantom throng,
Obedient to their master's song,

And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along.
For other worlds war's great one sighed in vain-
O'er other worlds see Shakspeare rove and reign!
The rapt magician of his own wild lay,
Earth and her tribes his mystic wand obey;
Old ocean trembles, thunder cracks the skies,
Air teems with shapes and tell-tale spectres rise:
Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep,
And faithless guilt unseals the lip of sleep:
Time yields his trophies up, and death restores
The mouldered victims of his voiceless shores.
The fireside legend, and the faded page,
The crime that cursed, the deed that blessed an age,
All, all come forth-the good to charm and cheer,
To scourge bold vice, and start the generous tear;
With pictured folly gazing fools to shame,
And guide young Glory's foot along the path of fame.

CORIOLANUS AND VOLUMNIA.-SHAKSPEARE.

The Tent of Coriolanus.

Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others.

Cor. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow
Set down our host.-My partner in this action,
You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly
I have borne this business.

Auf.

Only their ends

You have respected; stopp'd your ears against
The general suit of Rome; never admitted
A private whisper, no, not with such friends
That thought them sure of you.

Cor.

This last old man,

Whom with a crack'd heart I have sent to Rome,

Lov'd me above the measure of a father;

Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge

Was to send him; for whose old love, I have

(Though I shew'd sourly to him,) once more offered
The first conditions, which they did refuse,
And cannot now accept, to grace him only,
That thought he could do more; a very little
I have yielded too: Fresh embassies and suits,
Nor from the state, nor private friends, hereafter
Will I lend ear to.-Ha! what shout is this?
[Shout within.

Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow
In the same time 'tis made? I will not.-

Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, leading young MARCIUS, VALERIA, and Attendants.

My wife comes foremost; then the honor'd mould
Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand
The grand-child to her blood. But, out, affection!
All bond and privilege of nature break!

Let it be virtuous, to be obstinate.

What is that curt'sy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn ?—I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others.-My mother bows;

As if Olympus to a molehill should

In supplication nod: and my young boy
Hath an aspect of intercession, which

Great nature cries, Deny not.-Let the Volces
Plough Rome, and harrow Italy: I'll never
Be such a gosling to obey instinct; but stand,
As if a man were author of himself,

And knew no other kin.

Vir.

My lord and husband!

Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. Vir. The sorrow, that delivers us thus chang'd,

Makes you think so.

Cor.

Like a dull actor now,

I have forgot my part, and I am out,
Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,
Forgive my tyranny; but do not say,
For that, Forgive our Romans.—O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge;
Now by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss
I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip

Hath virgin'd it e'er since.-You gods! I prate,

And the most noble mother of the world

Leave unsaluted: Sink, my knee, i' the earth; [Kneels. Of thy deep duty more impression show

Than that of common sons.

Thou art my warrior;

I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
Cor. The noble sister of Publicola,

The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,