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THE TWO VOICES.

Death and its twofold aspect :-Wintery, one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from Hope and Joy shut out:
The other, which the ray divine hath touchd,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.

WORDSWORTH,
Two solemn voicés, in a funeral strain,
Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain

Meet in the sky:
“ Thou art gone hence !” one sang:-"Our light is flown,
Our Beautiful, that seem'd too much our own,

Ever to die!

“ Thou art gone hence! Our joyous hills among
Never again to pour thy soul in song,

When spring-flowers rise !
Never the friend's familiar step to meet,
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet

of thy glad eyes."
“ Thou art gone home, gone home!" Then high and clear
Warbled that other voice, “ Thou hast no tears

Again to shed!
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
Never, weigh'd down by memory's clouds again,

To bow thy head.
“ Thou art gone home!-Oh! early crown'd and blest!
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest

With aught below ?
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away-

Thrice blest to go !"

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like voice of grief-
Thou art gone hence! Alas! that aught so brief,

So lored should be !
Thou tak’st our summer hence !--the flower, the tone,
The music of our being, all in one

Depart with thee!
“Fair form, young spirit, morning-vision fled !
Can'st thou be of the dead, the awful dead?

The dark unknown?
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,

Thy smile is gone!”
“ Home, home!” once more th' exulting voice arose :
“ Thou art gone home! from that divine repose

Never to roam !
Never to say farewell, -to weep in vain,-
To read of change in eyes beloved again ;

Thou art gone home!
“ By the bright waters now thy lot is cast;
Joy for thee, happy Friend !--thy bark hath past

The rough sea's foam.
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still’d;
Home, home ! thy peace is won, thy heart is kill'd,

Thou art gone home !"

F II

VOL. XXIV.

SR

BALLAD STANZAS.

BY DELTA.

And art thou then away,--away,

And shall mine eyes no more
The features and the form survey,

That won my heart of yore!
To roam is pain, yet I cannot rest,

For I miss thee every where;
And hopes, that long sustain'd my breast,
Now yield to low

despair,

· Dear love,
Now yield to low despair.
Though from me fled, thou art not dead,

And drearier 'tis to know
That thus forlorn, from thee I'm torn,

In all thy beauty's glow!
That others in thy sight rejoice,

And feast their eyes on thee,
That yet on earth is heard thy voice,
But silent all for me,

Dear love,
But silent all for me!

Oh why wert thoa so fair, so dear,

Since we no more may meet? And bitterness is mix'd, and fear,

In what to both was sweet :
Alone I pine-I mourn alone-

I can only think on thee,
For all things now, since thou art gone,
Have lost their charms for me,

Dear love,
Have lost their charms for me.

I ponder on the time, when ours

It was in bliss to meet,
When future years seem'd strewn with flowers,

And grief itself grew sweet-
When fondly, wildly, I press'd thy hand,

And gazed in thine eyes of blue,
Till Earth became an enchanted land,
Which sorrow never knew,

Dear love,
Which sorrow never knew.

Dark is the night, the wild wind sighs,

The shower beats on the pane,
But sweet sleep from my pillow flies,

Never to come again!
Ever awake, for thy loved sake,

A cloud hangs o'er my heart;
No wonder that it swells to break,
Since we are torn apart,

Dear love,
Since we are torn apart.
Oh, welcome, welcome, the simplest lot,

And than palace halls to me,
More dear by far were the humblest cot,

If life were shared with thee !

None-none but thee could my bosom bliss -

Where could I solace find
Oh, where could I find happiness,
Save in thy sinless mind,

Dear love,
Save in thy sinless mind!

Thy form it floats before my sight

It cometh to glide away
Before me in the deep midnight,

And in the bright noon day ;-
Thy voice it saddens, or bids rejoice-

It stirreth to grief or glee ;-
And the light that lies in thy sweet eyes,
Is more than life to me,

Dear love,
Is more than life to me!

In vain I turn-in vain I toss

For I see thee every where;
I see thy beauty, and feel my loss,

And I droop in my despair!
I would not live-I could not live

And thus so distracted be;
I cannot live, if I must strive
To lose all thoughts of thee,

Dear love,
To lose all thoughts of thee!

Forget thee !-how can I forget ?

Alas! 'tis all in vain ;
My thoughts are ever thine ; and yet

To think of thee is pain !
'Tis pain to sit in silence drear,

When thy voice would music be ;
'Tis pain to know that thou art near,
Yet ne'er thy form to see,

Dear love,
Yet ne'er thy form to see!
I see thee not, 'mid the young and gay,

In Beauty's circle fair;
And it fears my heart, that thine is wrung

In solitude, by care;
Yet I will bless thee-will ever bless

While my bosom bleeds to know,
That I have caused thee this distress,
Yet may not soothe thy woe,

Dear love,
Yet may not soothe thy woe!
A storm hath pass'd before the sun,

Bedimming our bright noonday;
But, after the rain, he may shine again,

With a calm and cloudless ray;
And He, the sparrow's fall who heeds,

And can scatter the darkness dim,
Will never mock the heart that bleeds,
Or the faith that leans on Him,

Dear love,
Or the faith that leans on Him!

The world has given us to understand, by the most unequivocal expression of her feelings, that she has been long longing for what, in her passion, she rather ungrammatically calls a NocTEs. We beg to assure the worthy world, with the utmost sincerity, that few things could give us more pain, than to disappoint her in any of her natural, reasonable, and honourable hopes of happiness, in as far as they are and ought to be dependent on this Magazine.' The world, however she must pardon us for publicly telling her so, -is constitutionally impatient. She ought to regulate her feelings—to bring them under a system of severer discipline-like Us, to tame the ardour of youth by the wisdom of age. She is, in fact, our senior ; and yet to judge of the two, by their sense, their sobriety, and especially, by their submissive and cheerful resignation to the decrees of Providence, you might well suppose Us the older by some thousand years. “ Why is there not á Noctes? Why is there not a Noctes? Why is there not a Noctes ?” the world keep exclaiming, with disappointment akin to displeasure, during every month that is suffered to die away in gloom unillumined by one of those Divine Dialogues. " Why is there not a Noctes ?" Heaven and Earth, why is there not always a Moon? How can the world be so impious as to find fault with the laws that regulate the motions of the Heavenly Bodies ? The Moon, though to our eyes seeming to be occasionally " hid in her vacant interlunar cave,” notwithstanding keeps sailing along all the while in her orbit. So We, too, though sometimes invisible to the world, still keep shining—and why will not the world wait till, obedient to the Astral rules and regulations, a Noctes Ambrosianæ returns, and she is made again to feel the exquisite beauty of those lines of Homer and Pope

“ As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

O'er Heaven's clear azure sheds her sacred light !" We must not, however, be too severe on the world, whose chief fault, after all, is too impassioned admiration of Us. Let her know, then, that for some months past, the non-appearance of a Noctes has been owing to a cause over which we had little or no control—the illness of Mr Gurney. Early in May that gentleman was seized with a brain-fever. Something odd we certainly did see in his manner on May-day, when celebrating our annual feast of curds and cream at the Hunter's Tryst. But we continued to attribute the manifest Aurry and Auster of his demeanour to an unfortunate domestic grievance, with most of the fundamental features of which the world, alas ! is now but too well acquainted; and he still occupied his closet during our social evenings in Picardy, still took and still extended his notes. On setting up his MS. for June, the compositors the choice of the establishment--were first perplexed-then confounded and finally dismayed. However, they got up the article—and in the regular course of things, it fell under the eye of the best of foremen, Mr M'Corkindale. He stood aghast and then carried the incomprehensible composition to head-quarters to J. B. himself, who at once saw how it was, and immediately sent Mr Gurney (who had suddenly made his appearance in the office, very much in the dress of Hamlet, as de scribed by Ophelia) to Dr Warburton, then, as the world knows, providentially on a visit to Scotland. There was no longer any possibility of not seeing, or of concealing the truth. Mr Gurney had for months been as mad as a March hare ; and were we to publish the Three Noctes which he extended, during the incumbency of his disease, ihe world would think the Chaldee itself wishy-washy-such was the super-human impiety, and extra-mundane wickedness of the ravings, which, thank God, never issued from any of our lips ; but, aided no doubt by a few hints from us were the inspiration of his Demon. One truly singular and most interesting psychological curiosity we must mention in discriminating Mr Gurney's case from that of any other lunatic of our acquaintance. During his lunacy, he absolutely invented a new system of Short Hand ! a system which—now that he is not only perfectly restored to his former senses, but inspired by new ones—gives him incredible facilities so that never more will a single syllable of our wit and wisdom be suffered to elude his pen and make its escape. The Three Noctes—both as they exist in the new stenography—and in a state of extension-have been safely deposited in the British Museum. Two others, which may thus be fairly considered as the first of a new series--and which were taken and extended by Mr Gurney when he would appear to have been nearly recovered from the severest visitation by which a human creature can be afflicted we now present to the world as specimens of a style of composition, which we cannot for a moment doubt will be even more popular than those hitherto inimitable productions that have been the chief causes of clevating the character of this Magazine to the highest pinnacle of earthly fame.

C. N.

Doctes ambrosiauae.

No. XXXVII.

ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ. .

Σ.

Phoc. ap Ath.
[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,
An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ;
Meaning, 'TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINE BIBBING PEOPLE,
NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE ;
BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."
An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis-
And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

C. N. ap. Ambr.

Picardy Place-Scene, the Oval.-Time, Seven in the Evening.

North and TICKLER.

NORTH.

TICKLER.

NORTH

NORTH.

Is not Mrs Ambrose an incomparable coffee-brewstress?

She is, indeed. I never got reconciled to the continental custom of crean. less and sugarless coffee, North. The Dairy Company excels itself to-night.

Honey your bap, Tickler-I know you prefer it in the comb-and this has been a glorious season both for clover and heather.

TICKLER. Virgin honey, indeed—but be so good as give me the marmalade after the essence of flowers, the fruit smacks of paradise, and I shall conclude with jam.

To resume our conversation-What! says a great gaby in England, or a great rogue on the continent--what, are you then going to permit the Russians to eat up all Europe, leaf by leaf, as a maiden spinster eats a lettuce ?

You remember, North, Sir Bob Wilson wrote a book on this subject many years ago, which sadly terrified several old women who are holders of India stock. Sir Robert-he was a knight in those days—Sir Robert drew maps, and charts, and plans, and campaigned as actively on paper as ever he retreated at Banoz. He marched the troops of Russia from post to pillar over the bellies of the Austrians, Prussians, Poles, Saxons, Turks, Jews, and Atheists, all sprawling on the flat of their backs. Slap in like manner he dashed them down from Trebisond to the northern bank of the Euphrates, ninety miles.

To Arzroun, one hundred.

TICKLER.

NORTH

TICKLER.

To Sinope, two hundred and seventy.

NORTH.
To Scutari, opposite Constantinople, a little more than five hundred.

TICKLER. Across the Isthmus of Asia Minor to Alexandretta, (a sca-port town oppaa site Cyprus, in the Mediterrancan, and only sixty iniles from Alerpo,) litile more than four hundred.

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