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Hath classic hill or valley rung

With harmony like thine!
Who now shall wake thy widowed lyre !

-There breathes but one, who dares
To that Herculean task aspire;
But-less than thou—for fame he cares,
And scorns both hope and fear-ambition and desire !

STANZAS.

BY LORD BYRON.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,

Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-

Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared mine eye;

The tears refuse to start!
But

every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes! deep and heavy-one by one,

They sink, and turn to care;
As caverned waters wear the stone,

Yet dropping, harden there. –
They cannot petrify more fast

Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fixed, regard the past,

But never melt again.

The mountain breeze profusely flings
A balmy welcome from its wings,
Rich in a pure, celestial wealth,
The elastic happiness of health !
The rivulet, chafed, or gushing clear,
Salutes me with a friendly cheer;
Inviting, as to Fancy seems,
A verse to consecrate its streams.
For God hath to the Muses given,
A gift no other powers attain;
To stamp the eternity of heaven
On earthly things that grace their strain.
Even I, the least of all their train,
In happy mood, and happier hour,
May, with a fire ne'er lit in vain,
Convey the bright, immortal dower;
Fulfilling all this lovely Spring's desire,
Whose music hath awoke my slumbering lyre.

Scamander's princely waters still
Descend in song from Ida's hill,
Clearing the heroic plain, - although
His urn was shattered long ago.
The
array

divine of warrior kings,
Drink still from Simois' sacred springs.
Gleams still Eurotas' gelid tide,
Emblem of Spartan trick and pride.
Still ancient Tiber bursts along,
In yellow whirlpools to the sea,
God of a people fierce and strong,
And free, -in right of Virtue free!
Is there a lip that touches thee-
Dear flood! and owns a tyrant's sway?
A living fire that draught should be,
To melt his craven heart away!
Streams where a poet sings, or patriot bleeds,
Instinct with spirit flow, and generous deeds.

Sweet, nameless Spring! heroic themes
Suit ill thy modest, shrinking streams.
Thy waves a quiet cave have won,
This tall rock guards thee from the sun.
Thou see'st the steer or steed alone,
Refresh them from thy cup of stone.
Hear'st shepherd's reed, or lover's plaint,
(Vexing thy shrubs with carvings quaint).
Nor other sights or sounds prevail,
For thou, shy fountain, hast retired,
Far

up this rough, untrodden vale,
As half ashamed to be admired.
And I, an idler undesired,
Seem to disturb thy quiet cell,
With songs by OTHER TIMEs inspired,
And murmurs of the classic shell.
Bear me, meek Fount! a lone, forgotten thing,
Beneath these rocks, like thee to muse and sing.

Yet, let not pensiveness intrude,
This is a blameless solitude.
These savage rocks enormous piled,
In their long prospect o'er the wild,
See no wild-wasting, cruel drove
Of disciplined destroyers move.
Fair as from nature's hand they came,
Mountains and vales remain the same.
No deed of wrath, no dire offence
Of human passion, bold and wrong,
Hath scared the meek-eyed genius hence,
Who prompts and loves my simple song. -
Admit me, Genii, that among
These grots and secret fountains dwell,
Into your philosophic throng,-
Calm spirits, whom I love so well!
And let my soul resign proud reason's state,
And, passive, on each heavenly impulse wait.

To poets humbly thus resigned,
The great earth shews her inmost mind :

And speaks—in tones more sweet, more mild,
Than woman's music to her child,
Her wondrous being's mysteries,
Baring her deep heart to their eyes.
There play the springs whence ebb and flow,
All human joy, all human woe.
Knowledge divine! thy cheering ray,
Descending to the simple mind,
Purges all doubt and grief away,
Nor leaves one angry wish behind.
All creatures, then, of every kind,
Partake our sympathy and love,
Seen guided to the goal assigned
By Him, dread power!— all powers above !
Spirits of hills and streams !— my teachers be,

If this high wisdom be foredoomed to me!
Literary Magnet.

DOVEDALE.

BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.

way with every lighter thought! the ground
Is consecrate ; a barrier fixed between;
And leaving all as all had never been,
My pilgrimage rests here, beyond the bound
Of habitation, in the dale profound,
Where Dove, by rock and cavern glides serene,
Through solitude, where nought of life is seen,-
Through silence, that forbids all earthly sound.
Vain world, pursue me if thou canst! retire,
Ye bosom foes! Ambition's maddening spell,
The drugs of hate, the foul-fermenting leaven
Of avarice, the sorceries of desire,
The hand of blood, the tongue on fire of hell, –

Retire— and leave me to myself and heaven! Literary Souvenir.

THE RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST FROM

CAPTIVITY.

BY MISS M, J. JEWSBURY.

The restoration of Francis the First to his liberty, took place beside the little river Andaye, which divides the kingdoms of France and Spain. The moment his Spanish escort drew up on one side of the river, an equal number of French troops appeared on the opposite bank, and immediately afterwards Francis leaped into the boat which awaited him, and reached the French shore. He then mounted his horse and galloped off at full speed, waving his hand over his head, and crying aloud with a joyful voice, “ I am yet a King !

O glorious is that morning sky!

And gloriously beneath,
Those vine-clad hills and valleys lie,

Fair France's living wreath!
As yet that sky, ere dimmed by night,
Shall canopy a fairer sight,

And France exultant see,
More glorious than her vine-clad hills,
Or cloudless skies, or sunny rills,

Her captive king set free!

And yet amid the landscape fair,

Glides Andaye like a dream;
And the single bark at anchor there,

Seems sleeping on the stream.
Far as the roving eye may sweep,
Broods stirless beauty-quiet, deep,

On river, vale, and hill;
While low, sweet sounds that murmur there,
Seem as they rise to melt in air,

And make repose more still.

But hark !—a tumult on the plain!

Plumes, banners, floating gay;
And the gathering of a gallant train

On the banks of fair Andaye!

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