If we but kiss it, as the stroke descendeth,

Distilleth balm to allay the inflicted smart,
And "Peace that passeth understanding," blendeth
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart.

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation—

No longer feigned distress-fantastic woe,— I know my griefs,—but then my consolationMy trust, and my immortal hopes I know. Blackwood's Magazine.

ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

Ye dear companions of my silent hours,
Whose pages oft before my eyes would strew
So many sweet and variegated flowers
Dear Books, awhile, perhaps for aye, adieu!
The dark cloud of misfortune o'er me lours:
No more by winter's fire-in summer's bowers,
My toil-worn mind shall be refreshed by you:
We part! sad thought! and while the damp devours
Your leaves, and the worm slowly eats them through,
Dull Poverty and its attendant ills,

Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care,

And the world's cold neglect, which surest kills,
Must be my bitter doom; yet I shall bear

Unmurmuring, for my good perchance these evils are.

Literary Examiner.

THE CAPTIVE.

WAKE not the waters with thine oar,
My gentle gondolier!

The whispers of the wave and shore
Still linger on my ear.

Lonely the night, and dark its sleep,
And few the stars that glow
Within the mirror of the deep
That lies outspread below.

But fix the mast, the sail unfurl,
My gentle gondolier!

The wind is soft-the calm waves curl

The sentry cannot hear.

And in this light, our little sail

May well escape his ken;

And we shall meet, ere dawning pale,

Our long-lost countrymen.

Long years the iron manacle,

My gentle gondolier!

Hath worn these limbs in death-damp cell,

Till they are stiff and sere.

Yet little heed I strengthless limb,

Or think of anguish past,

So we escape while night is dim,

And heaven is overcast.

"Hark! 'tis the wakeful sentry's call!"

Nay, nay, my gondolier!

We 're far from castle-moat and wall

The sentry cannot hear.

'Tis but the plunging sea-dog's feat,

Or wild bird on the cliff;

And lo! the wind is in our sheet,

More swiftly sails our skiff.

More swiftly, and more swiftly yet,
My gentle gondolier!

The gale is fresh-our sail is set

And morn will soon be here.
Oh! ne'er did Hope so ardently
In human heart expand,
As mine, to see thee ere I die,
My own-my own loved land!

Literary Magnet.

C. D. M.

WOMAN'S PRAYER.

SHE bowed her head before the throne
Of heaven's eternal King;
The sun upon her forehead shone,
Like some communing thing;
In meekness and in love she stood,
Pale, lonely in her care;

But pure and strong is womanhood
In faithfulness and prayer.

The people of her father's land
Had left their fathers' path,

And God had raised his threat'ning hand
Against them in his wrath :

Her voice arose with theirs-the few,
Who still were faithful there;

And peace was given, and healing dew,
To woman's voice of prayer.

The king sat in his purple state
Apart, dominion-robed ;

But there was darkness in his fate,

His sickening heart was probed;

And priest and peer their vows preferred
With quick and courtier care,

But whose on high was soonest heard?
Lone woman's trembling prayer!

Wild war was raging-proudly rose
The chieftains of the realm;
And thousands met their country's foes,
With spear and crested helm;
And thousands fell-and wrathful men
Raged in their mad despair;

What heard the God of battles then?
Meek woman's secret prayer!

O strong is woman in the power
Of loveliness and youth;

And rich in her heart's sacred dower
Of strong, unchanging truth:
But who may tell her spirit's might
Above what strength may dare,
When in life's troubles and its night,
Her heart is bowed in prayer!

Literary Chronicle.

DIRGE.

SWEET be thy slumbers, child of woe!

At the yew-tree's foot, by the fountain's flow!May the firstling primrose blow,

Pallid snow-drop bloom;

And the blue-eyed violet grow,
By thy lonely tomb!

Duly there, at close of day,

Let woman's tears bedew the clay!
There let wren and ruddock stray,

And dark ivy creep

Mixed with fern and mosses grey,

O'er thy last long sleep!

C. D. M.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

I saw him on the battle eve,

When like a king he bore him! Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs before him:

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, The morrow, and the morrow's meeds,—

No daunting thoughts came o'er him ;He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky!

He looked on ocean,-its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth,—and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet:

While rock and glen, and cave and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!
He heard the imperial echoes ring—
He heard, and felt himself a king!

I saw him next alone;· -nor camp,
Nor chief his steps attended,

Nor banners blaze, nor coursers' tramp,

With war-cries proudly blended:He stood alone, whom Fortune high So lately seemed to deify,

He, who with Heaven contended, Fled, like a fugitive and slave; Behind, the foe,-before, the wave!

He stood,-fleet, army, treasure gone,
Alone, and in despair!

While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;