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Written after seeing among a collection of beautiful paintings,copies from the old masters, recently sent to New York from Italy, one representing the daughter of Herodias, bearing the head of John the Baptist in a charger, and wearing upon her countenance an expression, not of triumph, as one might suppose, but rather of soft and sorrowful remorse, as she looks upon the calm and beautiful features of her victim,-by a name unknown to us, LUCY HOOPER. They appeared in a New York paper.
MOTHER! I bring thy gift:
Take from my hand the dreadful boon, I pray. Take it the still pale sorrow of the face
Hath left upon my soul its living trace,
Never to pass away
Since from these lips one word of idle breath
What is it that I see
From all the pure and settled features gleaming? Reproach! Reproach! My dreams are strange and wild ; Mother! hadst thou no pity on thy child? Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hush'd lips,-my mother, canst thou brook Longer upon thy victim's face to look ?
Alas! as yestermorn
My heart was light, and to the viol's sound
I gaily danced, while crown'd with summer flowers,
And all was joy around
Not death. O mother! could I say
Take it! my heart is sad;
And the pure forehead hath an icy chill,I dare not touch it, for avenging heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given,
And the pale face appals me, cold and still With the closed lips. Oh tell me, could I know That the pale features of the dead were so?
I may not turn away
From the charm'd brow; and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken,
And that high brow in death bears seal and token
Of One whose words were flame
Oh! Holy Teacher! couldst thou rise and live,
Away with lute and harp,
With the glad heart for ever, and the dance;
The silent dead with his rebuking glance,
These fine descriptive stanzas were taken from one of the Magazines, a few months since.
FLING back the orient gates! behold awaking
Aurora beautiful from tranced sleep.
While with crystalline fingers she is shaking
Morn from her dewy hair, the young hours keep
Roses, far scattering onward as they flee
Light-rays, flash'd forth like foam from the blue deep; Downward they wheel in dance and revelry,
Waking on earth's grey hills the choirs of melody.
Her eyes are flashing glories! round her head
Her bow, o'er which the sun's rich rays are shed,
Life wakes from death like sleep, time plumes his wings, Night's shadows backward to their caves are hurl'd, Behold! great day is born, and walks along the world.
THE POOR MAN'S SONG.
Translated from the German of UHLAND, by Mr. R. M. MILNES, M.P. It cannot fail to please all wholesome tastes. There is a charming simplicity of expression, not altogether lost in the translation, although so difficult to be preserved; and the simplicity and naturalness (the coining of a required word must be excused) of the thoughts will be recognised by every reader.
A POOR man, poorer none, am I,
And cheerful heart my own.
A gleesome child I play'd about
I see rich gardens round me bloom,
My path is bare and barren all,
And yet, though sick at heart, I'll stand
O bounteous God, Thou leavest me not
There comes a gentle balm from heaven
Still in each dell thy sacred house
The organ and the choral song
Still shine the sun, the moon, the stars,
With blessing even on me,
And when the evening bell rings out,
One day shall to the good disclose
THE TIME FOR PRAYER.
We cut from a newspaper, where it is stated to be from an unknown hand, the following beautiful poem. Surely it must be the composition of some practised writer.
WHEN is the time for prayer?
With the first beams that light the morning sky,
Commend thy loved ones to His watchful care!—
And in the noontide hour,
If worn by toil or by sad cares opprest,
Thy voice shall reach Him through the fields of air :-
When the bright sun hath set,—
Whilst yet eve's glowing colours deck the skies ;-
For those who in thy joys and sorrows share :-
And when the stars come forth,
When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given,
To pure bright dreams of heaven,
Kneel to thy God-ask strength, life's ills to bear :—
When is the time for prayer?
In every hour, while life is spared to thee-
Thy thoughts should heavenward flee.
At home-at morn and eve-with loved ones there,
THE WIND AND LEAF, OR ELOPEMENT.
The following pretty Sonnet is taken from Tait's Magazine.
A touching tale, and true as history.
The Wind and Leaf held dalliance-" Gentle leaf,"
And though their whispers fragrant woo'd my stay
I thought on thee-arise and come away!
I would not rouse their coldness with a sigh;
Were meant for common passion-let us fly."
The leaf complied, and ere a day was done,
THE cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles,
THE place that does
Contain my books-the best companions-is
To me a glorious court, where hourly I
Converse with the old sages and philosophers;
And sometimes, for variety, I confer
With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels, Calling their victories, if unjustly got,
Unto a strict account; and, in my fancy,
Deface their ill-placed statues.