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And feelings once as strong as passions,
Float softly back-a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for the time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness ;
And while the sky grows dim and dimmer
Feel no untold and strange distress;
Only a deeper impulse given,
By lonely hour and darken'd room,
To solemn thoughts that rise to heaven
Seeking a life and world to come.

LINES ON MY BOOK-ROOM.

By SOUTHEY.

My days among the dead are pass'd;

Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old :
My never-failing friends are they
With whom I converse night and day.

With them I take delight in weal,

And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead : with them

I live in long past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their griefs and fears;
And from their sober lessons find
Instruction with a humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead : anon

With them my place will be ;
And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
Which will not perish in the dust.

DAY.
By CHARLES SWAIN.

Day on the mountain, the beautiful day!
And the torrents leap forth in the pride of his ray;
The chamois awakes from her wild mountain dream
And bounds in the gladness and life of his beam ;
And the horn of the hunter is sounding away,
Light, light on the hills, 'tis the beautiful Day!
Day in the valley, the rivulet rolls
Cloudless and calm as the home of our souls ;
The harvest is waning, and fountain and flower
Are sparkling and sweet as the radiant hour;
And the song of the reapers, the lark's sunny lay,
Proclaim through the valley, Day, beautiful Day!
Oh, solemn and sad his far setting appears,
When the last ray declines and the flowers are in tears,
When the shadows of evening like death-banners wave,
And the darkness encloses the world like a grave;
Yet the sun like the soul shall arise from decay,
And again light the world with Day, beautiful Day!

GINEVRA. SAMUEL ROGERS published his first poem in 1786, and he still lives! He is a graceful writer of verses, rather than a poet—but so very graceful that his works will probably survive many that have more true genius in them. His Itnly has been his most popular production, as it is his best. From it we take the following:

IF thou shouldst ever come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

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Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; but before thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth ;-
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said “ Beware”—her vest of gold
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot-
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody ! – Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm.
She was an only child; from infancy,

;
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remain'd to him ?
The
young

Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight.
She was all gentleness, all gaiety.
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy, but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there-
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
66'Tis but to make a trial of our love !"-
And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found ;
Nor from that hour could anything be guess’d,

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But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra,

Why not remove it from its lurking place ?”
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way
It burst-it fell; and lo! a skeleton ;
And here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a sbred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
“ GINEVRA.”—There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!

M. C.

By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM, already introduced to the reader. On a sunny Saturday evening

They laid him in his grave,
When the sycamore had not a shaking leaf,

And the harbour not a wave.
The sandhills lay in the yellow ray
Ripe with the sadness of parting May ;
And when had ended the voice of prayer
The Fall's deep bass was left on the air,

Rolling down.

Young he was and hopeful,

And ah, to die so soon! His new grave lies deserted

At the rising of the moon; But when morn comes round, and the church-bells sound, The little children may sit on the mound, And talk of him as they count the hour On the feathery dandelion flower, Whilst the stone-clacker rattles here and there, And the glittering Fall makes a tune in the air,

Rolling down.

ON THE FALLS OF THE MOHAWK RIVER.

Ry THOMAS MOORE.
From rise of morn, till set of sun,
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,
And, as I mark'd the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass ;
And as I view'd the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untired and wild,
Through shades that frown'd and flowers that smiled,
Flying by every green recess
That wooed him to its calm caress,
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave a look behind !
Oh! I have thought, and thinking sigh’d-
How like to thee, thou restless tide!
May be the lot, the life of him,
Who roams along thy water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many an humble still retreat
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest !
But urgent, as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls
I feel the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course

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