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And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, in war the bravest

heartOh! ever the renowned and loved thou wert-and there thou art !

“ Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!-The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent

knee ! And there before the blessed shrine, my sire, I see thee lie, How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I die!"

New Monthly Magazine.

TO A SKY-LARK.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Æthereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound?
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground ?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! That love-prompted strain,
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond),

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain!
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing,
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale the shady wood

A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with rapture more divine.
Type of the wise, who soar—but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

ISMAEL FITZADAM.

It was a harp just fit to pour

Its music to the wind and wave ;-
He had a right to tell their fame,

Who stood himself amid the brave.

The first time that I read his strain

There was a tempest on the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,

Were like dark ships, and battle cry.

I had forgot my woman's fears

In thinking on my country's fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw

Her colours float o'er blood and flame.

Died the high song, as dies the voice

Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left

A gentle twilight-hour behind.

Then paused I o'er some sad, wild notes,

Sweet as the spring-bird's lay withal;
Telling of hopes, and feelings past,

Like stars that darkened in their fall.

Hopes, perishing from too much light,

" Exhausted by their own excess;” Affections, trusted till they turned,

Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.

And is this, then, the curse that clings

To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling?
Is this the cloud that destiny

Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing?

It is—it is ! tread on thy way,

Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold, Look not up from the sullen path

That leads to this world's idol-gold !

And close thy hand, and close thy heart,

And be thy very soul of clay,
And thou wilt be the thing the crowd

Will worship, cringe to, and obey.

But look thou upon Nature's face,

As the young poet loves to look; And lean thou where the willow leans,

O'er the low murmur of the brook :

Or worship thou the midnight sky,

In silence, at its moon-lit hour; Or let a single tear confess

The silent spell of music's power:

Or love, or feel, or let thy soul

Be for one moment pure or free; Then shrink away at once from life,

Its path will be no path for thee !

Pour forth thy fervid soul in song

There are some that may praise thy lays ; But of all earth’s dim vanities,

The very earthliest is praise.

Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves,

Around the poet's temples hung, How turned to gall, and how profaned

By envious or by idle tongue !

Given by vapid fools, who laud

Only if others do the same; Forgotten even while the breath

Is on the air that bears your name.

And He! what was his fate—the bard !

He of the Desert Harp, whose song
Flowed freely, wildly as the wind

That bere him and his harp along?

That fate which waits the gifted one,

To pine, each finer impulse checked;
At length to sink and die beneath

The shade and silence of neglect.

And this, the polished age, that springs

The Phænix from dark years gone by, That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves

Her warrior and her bard to die.

To die in poverty and pride;

The light of hope and genius past; Each feeling wrung, until the heart

Could bear no more, so broke at last.

Thus withering amid the wreck

Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the minstrel do but die,

Cursing his too beloved strings ! Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

D

AN IRISH TRADITION.

From the foot of Inchidony Island, in the bay of Clonakilty, an elevated tract of sandy ground juts out into the sea, and terminates in a bank of soft verdure, wbich forms a striking contrast to the little desart behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under it. Tradition relates, that the Virgin Mary having wandered one evening to this sequestered spot, was there discovered praying, by the crew of a vessel which was then coming to anchor in the Bay. Instead of sympathising with her in her piety, the sailors were so inconsiderate as to turn her into ridicule, and even add to their ill-timed jeers some very impertinent remarks upon her beauty. The result may readily be anticipated-a storm arose, and the vessel having struck upon the black rock of Inchidony, went down with all her crew, not one of whom was ever afterwards heard of !

The evening star rose beauteously above the fading day,
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin went to pray;
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall,
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was the brightest of

them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared,
And her crew all crowded to the deck, as to the land she neared ;
To the calm and sheltered haven she floated like a swan,
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below, in pride and glory

shone.

The Captain saw “Our Lady” first, as he stood upon the prow, And marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her

brow;

Her arms were folded gracefully, upon her stainless breast,
And her eyes looked up among the stars, to Him her soul loved

best.

He bad his sailors look on her, and hailed her with a cheer,
And on the kneeling Virgin straight, they gazed with laugh and

jeer; They madly vowed a form so fair they ne'er had seen before, And cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the

shore.

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