THE FATE OF THE OAK.

BRYAN WALTER PROCTER.

FROM ENGLISH SONGS, AND

OTHER SMALL POEMS, BY BARRY CORNWALL." 1832.

THE Owl to her mate is calling;

The river his hoarse song sings;

But the Oak is mark'd for falling,

That has stood for a hundred springs.
Hark! a blow, and a dull sound follows;
A second, --he bows his head;

A third, and the wood's dark hollows
Now know that their king is dead.

His arms from their trunk are riven,
His body all bark'd and squared;
And he's now, like a felon, driven

In chains to the strong dockyard:
He's sawn through the middle, and turn'd
For the ribs of a frigate free;

And he's caulk'd and pitch'd, and burn'd,
And now he is fit for sea!

P

Oh! now,-- with his wings outspread
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be),
He will triumph again, though dead,
And be dreaded in every sea:
The lightning will blaze about,

And wrap him in flaming pride;
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout,
In the fight, from his bold broad-side.

And when he has fought, and won,

And been honour'd from shore to shore;
And his journey on earth is done,—
Why, what can he ask for more?
There is nought that a king can claim,
Or a poet or warrior bold,

Save a rhyme and a short-lived name,

And to mix with the common mould!

A LOVE SONG.

GEORGE DARLEY.

SWEET in her green dell the Flower of Beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair. Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers

Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air?

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming,

To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from

above.

O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,

I, too, could glide to the bower of my love'

Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,

Opes she her eye-lids at the dream of my lay;

Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,

To her lost mate's call in the forests far away!

Come, then, my Bird! for the peace thou ever bearest,
Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me!
Come! this fond bosom-my faithfullest-my fairest―
Bleeds with its death-wound, but deeper yet for thee!

We should hardly have permitted to die in comparative obscurity, one of the most delicious versifiers and most fanciful poets of any day--George Darley. As his very name will be strange to many who read this, and as my praise may therefore excite suspicion in those who conceive themselves well read in poetry, I have justified myself by the above specimen of a song of the right quality; a love-song, but how different from the opera trash with which we have been deluged !-H. F. Chorley.

LINES,

On hearing that the Mayor of Bath had been requested to exert his authority, and prevent shaving on Sundays!

Q. IN THE CORNER, FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE."

THOU shalt not shave on Sundays; to be saved.
None must henceforth shave others, or be shaved;
No mortal shall be found, when shutters close,
To take his fellow mortal by the nose;
No man of suds must let a stranger in,
Or pass unholy razors o'er his chin;
Spread filthy lather on the Sabbath day,
Or scrape a week's unseemliness away.
Should swain, or barber, mar a six days' growth
Upon the seventh,-ruin seize them both :-
And doubtless, by some newly-garbled text,
Washing and combing will be sinful next.
Whilst evils so minute our minds engage,
In virtue, this must be a golden age '
Or is it flimsy leaf, which thinly spread
O'er mere externals, gilds an age of lead?

Whilst they preserve suct

Are men more pure in deeu. as
Do they on show alone the cate MEDUS!
Or have they "that with: w

Oh! impious question. of
Their sanctity car ne
Their love of Sunua beau
Are kindred eLauation
All are, in truti. a para
And every thing g

So much they strive to pr
They scorn to puriy tasa
They pray witi unti .
And e'en their ver eat.

Each holy har Gera

Hairs left to Loure

And miast those e

Small birds of pala..
If any donot to-

Their system ar
New Releme

New paths of pas
New doctrine

And all we

3

. o'er.