PUBLISHED BY JOHN ARLISS, 36. GUTTER LANE, CHEAPSIDE, SEPP 2 1822.
"JOAN OF ARC." BY R. SOUTHEY ESQ. POET LAUREATE.
SCARCE had the early dawn from Chinon's towers Made visible the mist that curl'd along
The river's winding way, when from her couch
The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head;
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like a youth who from his mother's arms,
For his first field impatient, breaks away,
Poising the lance went forth.
Twelve hundred men,
Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face
O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.
The assembled court gazed on the martiall'd train,
And at the gate the aged prelate stood
To pour his blessing on the chosen host.
And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and, chaunting high the hallow'd hymn, From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,
Snow-white they bore.
THE EVENING SUN.
"TIS the last sweet smile of the evening sun:
How bright! how sublime its beaming!
What golden tides of splendour steep
The rosy clouds as they softly sleep
Beneath its holy gleaming.
"Tis the light of innocent thoughts, whose ray
An infant's slumber blesses,
When weary of paying smile for smile
Its blue eyes close and it dreams the while
Of the breast it fondly presses.
The breezy spirits of air float past
With calm and noiseless motion;
Not a zephyr is dimpling the glassy lake-
E'en the aspen hath still'd its tremulous shake
'At Nature's high devotion.
As I loiter along my homeward path,
What feelings of deep regret
That last sweet smile of the evening sun
Awakes in my heart-for it speaks of one
Whose sun in the grave hath set!
His farewell look with Christian hope,
Shone as purely calmly bright!
Alas! when it vanish'd the night came down,
And my poor lorn heart no more might own
A FATHER'S guiding light!
ANNIVERSARY HYMN.
INTENDED FOR A SUNDAY-SCHOOL INSTITUTION. HAIL! hail! Omnipotent!-Supreme!
Behold the children of thy hand,
With sacrifice of pious praise
Before thy sacred altar stand.
Though breathed from infant's lips alone,
A grateful offering may it rise,
And seraph bands the incense waft
With loud hosannahs thro' the skies.
Hail! hail! Omnipotent!-Supreme!
Again the year hath roll'd away,
Since last within thy hallow'd porch
We met to celebrate this day;
And thou hast spared us to repeat
Our warm thanksgivings, and confess
The visitations of thy grace
Benignant, kind, and numberless!
Hail! hail! Omnipotent!-Supreme!
Through life's low vale our path direct,
And when the tempter spreads his snares,
In mercy save us and protect!
Deign, Lord, thy richest gifts to pour
On those who thus befriend our youth,
And teach our wilderness of mind
To blossom in the light of truth!
AND are my fair prospects so soon overshaded?
Already my hopes of futurity o'er?
So new though my life-is its beauty all faded?
It is oh it is-and can never bloom more.
These tears that will burst, they can never restore me
The peace and the joy I like toys threw away;
In life's early dawn, with the world all before me,
I took but one step, and I darkened life's day.
O could I but break the chain round me entwining,
And fly to the bright rosy paths I forsook!
I struggle in vain, and in vain they are shining
More lovely as on them more distant I look!
This weight on my heart-must I bear it for ever?
Ah yes! for my sorrows I dare not explain;
Sweet pity might soothe me-but never, oh never!
The friends I most value must guess at my pain.
And ne'er will they fancy the griefs that oppress me;
The joys I have bartered they think are my own;
In hope's fairy language they smiling address me,
Nor dream how far from me the seraph has flown.
FROM THE FRENCH OF DE CAILLY. "BARBER, you cut me-take care, pray." "Yes, yes, your beard, but not your skin." "Oh then my beard, it seems, to-day Has equal feeling with my chin." Mary-le-bone, March 1822,
THE sun had sunk beneath the western isles
In all its majesty, the purple clouds
Still edged with glowing gold, were floating o'er
The distant hills, sigu of departing day.
Alone I wander'd from my home, impell'd By fate and wild despair, to quit the world That giddy scene of mirth and happiness; Such joys I envied not; the barren wastes And unfrequented vales more fitting scenes Display'd, to one so heavily oppress'd.
Beneath a cypress shade, ill-omen'd tree,
Close by a fountain's head, I sat me down;
The winds were hush'd around, no gentle breeze
Play'd on the crystal stream, the pallid moon,
Muffl'd in clouds, shed not a ray below;
A glow-worm, creeping thro' a dewy path,
Lit up his twinkling gem to break the gloom
Of my drear solitude.
Sad stillness reigned, the nightingale alone,
In pity for my sorrows, warbled forth
Her mouruful strain, and lulled my cares to sleep.
I slept, and dreamt, and to my fancy's gaze
A well-known form appeared, alas! how changed
From that I once beheld; not Venus' self
Springing from ocean's foam, was born more fair
Than this once loved companion of my youth;
A form so perfect, with such beauty crowned,
Seemed some fair wanderer from the spheres above:
Wrapt in deep thought, and motionless, she stood,
Like some pale monument; despair and grief
O'erhung her soul, her every glance proclaimed
Unnumbered woes, and bitterest agony;
The rose that bloomed upon her youthful cheek
In happier days, was faded, and her eyes,
So radiant once, were clouded o'er with tears,
Which swelling, burst their silken ties, and down
Her cheeks fast trickling thro' their melting course,
Dropt on her snowy breast, as evening dew
Fresh falling o'er a full-blown lily bed;
Her hair, neglected, down her shoulders streamed
In lengthened tangles, mantling o'er her neck
Luxuriantly; so mute th damsel stood,
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