They asked no clarion's voice to fire Their souls with an impule high; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre, And still sweet flutes their path around, Sent forth Eolian breath; They needed not a sterner sound So moved they calmly to their field, Save bearing back the Spartan's shield, SONG. THE lights are fair in my father's hall, The red wine is bright to see; But I'll flee like a bird and leave them all, There is gold around my silken robe, And white pearls are in my hair: And they say that gems and the broidered vest But dearer to me is one silent smile Of thine eagle eye than them all; And dearer the deck of thy bark to me Than my father's lighted hall. I have no home now but thy arms, And they are the world to me; All, dear love! I have left for thee. L. E. L. LINES ON A PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF NELL GWYN, BY SIR PETER LELY, IN THE R. CRACROFT, ESQ. POSSESSION OF BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl! If this shade be thine, NELL GWYN! Cast that carcanet away, Thou hast need of no display Gems, however rare, to deck Such an alabaster neck! Can the brilliant's lustre vie With the glories of thine eye? With the two lips breathing there? Now to pass thee by-NELL GWYN! But they've wronged thee;—and I swear By that brow, so dazzling fair, By the light subdued that flashes By the clustering curls that wreathe them,-- By thy lips, that more than speak, By thy stately swan-like neck, Glossy white without a speck,- Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms, No bold invitation's given From the depths of that blue heaven;— Can be aught allied to Shame. Then let them call thee what they will, I've sworn and I'll maintain it still, (Spite of Tradition's idle din,) Thou art not-cans't not be-NELL GWYN! A. A. W. TO JESSY. BY LORD BYRON. THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes There is a voice whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip which mine hath prest, It vowed to make me sweetly blest, There is a bosom-all my own Hath pillowed oft this aching head; A mouth that smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave-or cease to beat. There are two souls whose equal flow, In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part-They part?—Ah, no! They cannot part!-Those souls are one! Literary Panorama. THE NYMPH OF THE STREAM. BY MRS. HUNTER. NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn There no green herbage shall a leaf return, No plant can flourish and no flower can blow ;Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals, Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy waterfalls. Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows,- And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste;- And when far distant from the glowing scene Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream, To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain-stream. English Minstrelsy. |