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POETRY mow TllK LONDON' 1.1TKKA It V OA7.,.rT] ■slim. Lr.AVK.s poi;ms and skk.tchks. Hu EkzaUth ft ’illesford Mill*. With much of the poetical talent, and still more of the poetical feeling-, which only require culti vation to make its talents polished and admired, this volume possesses a strong claim to attention. Kvidently the production of a young but gifted mind, tlie very faults are more than half redeem ed by their enthusiasm ; and the beauties of this promising volume are “ winged (lowers and (ly ing gems,” which require only arrangement and setting to do themselves justice. The following extracts appear to us to possess much natural ;ace and sw eetness— “ They said I must not sing of love— I threw my lyre away, For oh ! I could not w ake one tone, Without that dearest lay. I'was strange to bid a woman’s lieart forbear its loveliest power I hey might as well tell Nature’s hand It must not rear a flower. The;, might as well forbid the skv I n gi\e her forms of light: fell forms of light they must not shine i pon the clouds of night. The flow’rcts they are nature's own. And stars the midnight seek ; And Cove his sweet untranijuil rose. Has throw n on woman’s cheek ' I is vain to fly from destiny , t or all is ruled above ; Nature has flowers, and r.igjit has stars, \nd w oman’s heart has love. And if 1 must not sing of love, Throw, throw the ly re away ; for oh I 1 cannot wake one tone. Without life’s dearest lay.” 1 lie next is a sweet picture of home affections— v soldier, after many y ears absence, returning from ndia. With heavy step the way-farcr moves on Within the nursery of his infancy \n aged mother sits, gazing upon \ miniature of boyhood—and that bright, t hat sun-bright boyhood, his I Her lingers twist A thick, fair lock of short and curling hair . she is smiling, weeping, and forgetting The work of l ime, on things so beautiful slie only thinks upon her glad-ey ed child,— she only whispers blessings on tier buy. Mutely his melancholy spirit bends •Jver the threshold of that dear loved spot , Mis w ild puise heats beneath his sable hair, \nd mingled there appears the witty grey l lis lips are silent ’mid the eloquence Of all his sweet hut deep remembrances ; Mis eyes arc fixed upon the changed, revered, lieloved guardian of his infancy — To him, touch’d sacredly by grief and time— To him, more beautiful than all the forms Of youth and beauty, which had cross’d his path. He knew her by those tokens of himself, And not by lip, or eye, or cheek, or brow ; His troubled lieart now lives upon his tongue, And throws its broken language on her ear In such a moment, is great nature still * Ay—for he hears no semblance of his youth Her heart is frail in power, though strong in love ; The eve must recognize before the pulse ; The bosom only throbs to well-known tones . Tor sense encumbers spirit :—now—her own, Her young Cadet 1 in dear and fargone years, Is at her feet, and yet she heeds him not— Heeds not the tremblings of Ins drooping lip, ! oves not the fond and gently circling arn... : And would recoil from him, e’en when he hides 111-, tell-tale, flush’d, and worn cheek in her robe; “My Mother ! oh, my Mother smile on me.” Startled, and terrified, and wild, she hung I'pon him ; but her heart refused her child. She sought the peach-bloom on his faded cheek, And cloudless lights upon his heavy brows ; She look’d for sunny e\es and waving locks, And knew not what that troubled face could mean ; And how the white hair, mingled with the black, Could dispossess, so very, very scon, The pale brown loveliness she doated on , Anil then she gave that strange and fearful laugh, Which pains, not joys, the heart, like mockery. The wand’rer then laid bale his manly arm, Clasp'd round b\ many a tendril of the vine, And, faintly smiling, bade her recognize The wild peculiar blemish she had given. —The solitary dimple Of his infancy played for one moment— The mother’s heart replied to that sweet delve ' And then the dark eye threw its witchery : Oh ' he was all her own, her dear Cadet ' Then fondly calling him her boy, she hung Upon his neck, and wept—how she did weep ! This was the hour for which she pray’d for Years ; 1 his was the hour his soul through toils had y earn’d To know, llut half familiarly looked— When ui) uneasy struggling o’er her face, And an unquiet searching in her e\e : Then turn’d upon the happy bo\, w hose smiles Stole o’er the rosy of his cheeks like sun O’er flow’rs—’twasa heart breaking miniature ' A rainbow colouring, which seem’d, but was not: The contrast was too trembling ; so she hid That beauteous semblance of a far-gone time— And press’d her bp upon reality.” JI1UM TIMK’s TELESCOTK. The Lament uf the Gohljineh to its Mistress. Supposed to have been heard issuing' from the C.ruvc on tile Night succeeding the interment.— The bird was particularly delighted with the Piano Forte, which is here alluded to. Oh, weep for me !—’tis finished now, Thy hands have raised thy verdant tomb, And strown it thick with violet bloom ; And planted there a cypress bough, Whose leaves, one day, may haply w ave Funereal o’er thy songster’s grave. (ill ! weep for me, and water well With tears the turf w here low I’m laid,— He solemn dirges, slow and sad, Heard mingling with the evening bell, Which ilying day so sweetly chimes, To ’mind thee of departed limes. Departed time, and days gone to — Oh, weep for them ! oh, weep foi me, As 1 had mourned and wept for thee, lladst thou been laid where now I he,— All changing fast to simplest clay, And mute as mine thy pleasing lay. The lay—the lay—we wont to sing, When thou oil illy sweet harpsicord, Would run through many a thrilling chord, In the happy hour of cheerful Spring 1 It seemed my breast could scarce contain t he rapture of that tender strain. It made me think of field and grove,— Of freedom—but than these far more— (’Twas that which touched my bosom's core) It made nte think of earliest love : Voting love ! whose tendrils oft do twine Round virgins’ hearts, as once round mute. And yet most dear my cage was grow :• by long society with thee— I neither wished nor would he free: 1 lived, I sting- for thee alone— Till, losing all desire to roam. My prison changed itself to horns. Ah me ! the thread—the slender thread - On w hich our heart's best hopes abide,— The fatal snares too soon divide The life I then so sweetly led ; Oh, all unlooked ! it was my doom To sleep within this violet tomb. Then weep for me—Oh ! weep for me: Wet my sad coucli with briny tears. The cypress bough, in flight of years, Perchance may grow to cypress tree,— And, pensive birds, on branch and spuy. Repeat the long lamenting lay, When tliou, dear maid, art far away 1 FROM THE MONTHLY MAGAZTSC SONG OF THE CURFEW. II y Mr.;, //email; Hark ! from the dim church tower The deep slow Curfew’s chime ! A heavy sound, unto hall and bower, In England’s olden times ! Sadly ’twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And w ho might not see his ow n hearth’s flame* In his children’s eyes make light. Sadly and sternly heard, As it quenched the wood fire’s glow, W Inch cheer’d the bard with the mirthful word. And the red wine’s foaming flow ; Until the sudden booming knell Flung out ftom every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit fell, With a weight and with a chain. Wo for the wanderer then, In the wild deer’s forests far ! No cottage lamp, no haunts of men, Might guide him as a star. And wo for him, w hose wakeful soul With lone aspiring fill’d, ould have liv’d o’er some immortal scroll. While the sounds of earth were still’d And yet a deeper wo For the watchers by the bed, Where fondly loved in pain lay low, And rest forsook the head I For the mother doomed unseen to keep lly the dying babe her place, ; And to feel its throbbing breast, ami w eep, Yet not behold its face ! Darkness, in chieftain’s hall I Darkness in peasant’s cot ' While Freedom, under the shadowy pall. Sat mourning over her lut. Oh ' the fire-side’s peace, we well may pr For blood hath flow’d like rain. Pour’d forth to make new sanctuTies Of England’s home again ! Heap the yule-faggots high, Till the red light fills the room ' In home’s own h >ur, when the storm; \ Grows thick with evenings gloom. Gather ye round .he holy hearth, And by its biightness blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth With a thought of the olden davs ! FEU MS.—One dollar and fifty cents per annum, payable quarterly in advance ; or one dollar and ■ wenty-five cents, to be paid at the time of sub scribing. 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