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REMEMBERED LOVE.

Oh power of love! so fearful and so fair— Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care— Oh! thou day-dreaming spirit who dost look Upon the future as the charmed book Of Fate were open'd to thine eyes alone— Thou who dost cull, from moments stolen and gone Into eternity, memorial things, To deck the days to come—thy revelings Were glorious and beyond all others. Thou Didst banquet upon beauty once; and now The ambrosial feast is ended ! Let it be Enough to say “It was.” Oh! upon me, From thy o’ershadowing wings ethereal, Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power, And on the breath of every coming hour Send me faint tidings of the things that were.

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Meth IN ks There's something lonely in the state of kings! None dare come near them. As the eagle, poised Upon his sightless throne in upper air, Scares gentle birds away, so kings (cut off From human kindred by the curse of power) Are shunn’d and live alone. Who dare come near The region of a king 1 There is a wall (Invisible, indeed, yet strong and high) Which fences kings from close approach of men. They live respected—oh, that chest “respect?” As if the homage that abases others Could comfort him that has’t. Alone—alone! Prison'd in ermine and a velvet chair— Shut out from hope, (the height being all attain'd,) Yet touch'd by terrors—what can soothe a king !

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'Tis night—still night! The murmuring world lies still !

All things which are lie still and whisper not;
The owl, the bat, the clock which strikes the hour
And summons forgetful man to think of heaven,
The midnight cricket on the ashy hearth,
Are quiet, dumb! Hope, Fear, lie drown'd in dreams;
And conscience, calmer than a baby's breath,
Murders the heart no more. Who goes!"Tis naught,
Save the bird echo, who comes back to me
Afraid o' the silence. Love! art thou asleep?
Rose o' the night, on whom the soft dew lies,
Here come I, sweet, mocking the nightingale,
To sing of endless love, passionate pain,
And wishes that know no rest

--HAPPINESS.

A Month ago I was happy! No, Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy, Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch. But it was ever thus with Happiness: It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes.

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TO THE SINGER PASTA.

NEveR till now—never till now, O Queen
And wonder of the enchanted world of sound !
Never till now was such bright creature seen,
Startling to transport all the regions round !
Whence comest thou—with those eyes and that
fine mien,
Thou sweet, sweet singer ? Like an angel found
Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled)
A star 'mong clouds—a spirit mid the dead.

Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings Perpetual sweetness near—divine despair! Thou speak'st—and music, with her thousand strings, Gives golden answers from the haunted air! Thou movest—and round thee grace her beauty flings' Thou look'st—and love is born! O songstress rare! Lives there on earth a power like that which lies In those resistless tones—in those dark eyes?

Oh, I have lived—how long !—with one deep
treasure,
One fountain of delight unlock'd, unknown;
But thou, the prophetess of my new pleasure,
Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone;
And now outgushes, without stint or measure,
The endless rapture—and in places lone
I shout it to the stars and winds that flee,
And then I think on all I owe to thee!

I see thee at all hours—heneath all skies—
In every shape thou takest, or passionate path:
Now art thou like some wing'd thing that cries
Over a city flaming fast to death;
Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies:
Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath:—
All things thou art by turns—from wrath to love;
From the queen eagle to the vestal dove'

Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmask'd
In slow pale silence, or mid brief eclipse);
But what are they to thy sweet strength, when task'd
To its height—with all the God upon thy lips?
Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked
By one who in the book of darkness dips,
Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit
Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit.

Would I could crown thee as a king can crown' Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame, Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drown— Whose light shall darken every meaner name? The gallant courts thee for his own renown ; Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game: The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse; And I–alas!—I can but bring my verse !

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

On thou vast Ocean' ever sounding sea! Thou symbol of a dread immensity Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which downward hurl’d From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth hath naught of this: no chance or change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-waken air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go: Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow; But to their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their viewless home, And come again, and vanish: the young spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming, And winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild autumn with a look forlorn Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken when the summer flies. —Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power, A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour, When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds, A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind, How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind, And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven.

Thou trackless and immeasurable main' On thee no record ever lived again To meet the hand that writ it: line nor lead Hath ever fathom'd thy profoundest deeps, Where haply the huge monster swells and

sleeps,

King of his watery limit, who, 'tis said,
Can move the mighty ocean into storm–
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach–
“Eternity, eternity, and power.”

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Few writers of verses have been more overrated than HENRY Kirke White, and it is a shame, that while there has never appeared in this country a single edition of the poetical writings of LANDoR, KENyon, MILNEs, Miss BARRETT, and others of similar merit, there have been more impressions of White than there have been of Milton, or Pope, or Coleridge.

HENRY KIRRE White was born in Nottingham, on the twenty-first of March, 1785. He was deemed a dull boy at school, where at the early age of eleven he began to write verses to satirize his teacher, for supposed injuries. He was in his fifteenth year articled to an attorney, in his native town, and while in his office acquired by diligent application a knowledge of the Greek, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian languages. An unfortunate deafness induced him to abandon the study of the law, and he published a small volume of poems with the expectation that the profits would enable him to enter one of the univer

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

OH ! yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home !
Oh! welcome is yon little cot,
Where I shall rest, no more to roam .
Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land ;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband:
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report
Allured me from my native land;
It bade me rove—my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That graced yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave ;

And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve.

--~~~~~~

sities. In this he was disappointed; but several gentlemen stepped forward and became his patrons, and he entered St. John's College, at Cambridge, where he soon obtained a high reputation among his classmates for scholarship and for his personal virtues. His health was quickly impaired by his constant and earnest devotion to study, and he died on the nineteenth of October, 1806, in the twentyfirst year of his age. His poetical writings were collected soon after his death, and published with an elegant memoir by Dr. Southey. The admiration which they excited is said to have been almost unexampled. But a more correct estimate of his abilties now obtains. He was scarcely equal to the DAvidsons of New York, and it would be almost as absurd to compare him with KEAts or Chatterton as to compare Robert Montgomery with Milton. I doubt whether if he had lived to the maturest age, he would have produced any thing in poetry above elegant mediocrity.

Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land :
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

CANZONET.

MA in EN ' wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast:
Why should horror's voice astound thee,
Death can bid the wretched rest'
All under the tree
Thy bed may be,
And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden' once gay Pleasure knew thee;
Now thy checks are pale and deep :
Love has been a felon to thee,
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:
There's rest for thee
All under the tree,
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

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GExtly, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand 1–let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
0 let the aerial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear!
That I may bid my weeping friends good-by
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

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George GoRDon ByRoN was born in London on the twenty-second of January, 1788. His father, who was a man of dissolute habits, quitted England in the following year, and soon afterward his mother retired to Aberdeen, where at an early age he was placed at a grammar school, in which he remained until the death of his great uncle, the sixth Lord ByRoN, when (his father having previously died in France) he succeeded to the family title and estates, and removed to Newstead Abbey. Soon after this he was placed under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, by whom he was sent to Harrow, where he remained about four years. He is described by Dr. DRURy, the head master here, as having been sensitive and diffident, and not easily governed except by gentle means. He did not excel in scholarship, but none of his school fellows, among whom were the present Sir Robert PEEL, Mr. PRoctor, and others who have since been distinguished, were equal to him in general information. In his seventeenth year he was transferred to Trinity College, Cambridge. His general characteristics were still the same as at Harrow. He cared nothing for the honours of the university, and its discipline was not of a nature rightly to influence his conduct.

On leaving Cambridge ByRoN resumed his residence at Newstead Abbey, a place rich in legendary associations, and situated in one of the most romantic districts of the country. He now published The Hours of Idleness, a collection of verses written during his college life, and remembered at this day chiefly on account of the severe criticism they received in the Edinburgh Review,” which lashed the dormant energies of the poet into action, and led to the composition of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, a satire in which he took ample vengeance not only upon his critics but upon nearly all the literary men of the day who were more fortunate than himself.

A circumstance occurred about this time which had a powerful influence upon ByRoN's future character. MARY CHAworth was pro

*This celebrated article was written by Lord Brougham.

bably the only Englishwoman whom he ever loved. He had become acquainted with her

never wholly abandoned the hope that his affection would be returned, until now, when he underwent the trial of seeing her married to another. and is alluded to in many of his sweetest verses, written in subsequent years. Immediately after the publication of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, the noble author took his seat the first time in the House of Lords. He entered upon public life under peculiar and adverse circumstances. He was unknown in society, and there was no peer to present him in parliament. The loneliness of his position destroyed an incipient ambition of political eminence, and deepened the gloom and misanthropy which had been caused by earlier disappointments. He suddenly determined to travel, and leaving London with Mr. John CAM Hobhouse, in July, 1809, he passed two years in Portugal, Spain, Greece, Turkey and Asia Minor. Approaching England in the summer of 1811, he wrote

indifferent to public affairs; solitary, without the wish to be social; with a body enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit and heart yet unbroken, I am returning home, without a hope, and almost without a desire.” Be

increased by intelligence of the death of his mother, and within a few weeks he lost five more of his nearest friends and relations. This depression gradually wore away. He employed himself in revising the poems he had written while abroad, and in March, 1812, when the author was but twenty-four years of age, England was electrified by the appearance of the first two cantos of Childe Harold. Alluding to the applause bestowed upon this work, he says tersely in his diary, “I awoke one morning and found myself famous.” He became at once the idol of society. A few days before, he had made his first speech in parliament. It was praised by Sheridan,

soon after his removal from Scotland, and had

She is the heroine of The Dream,

to a friend, “Embarrassed in my private, and

fore he reached Newstead his melancholy was

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