SONG.

H. F. CHORLEY.

O, LET me give my heart away,
I've lived too long alone,
Until my spirit, once so gay,

Hath dull and joyless grown ;
The smile hath faded from my cheek,
The fount of Hope is dry,

I scarcely have the heart to speak,
Then love me, or I die.

I've lived a hermit life too long, 'Mid rocks and lonely trees,

My only thoughts a changing throng Of aimless fantasies.

But weary of these wanderings vain,
For human things I sigh;

O give me to my kind again,
And love me, or I die.

I'll be the slave to watch your rest,
To work your will by day,
And every scarcely look'd behest
With thankful haste obey;
If to my suit at last you'll make
One sign of kind reply :

Then hear me, for sweet pity's sake,
And love me, or I die.

THE CHURCHYARD.

MISS BOWLES.

THE thought of early death was in my heart,
Of the cold grave, and "dumb forgetfulness ;"
And with a weight like lead,

An overwhelming dread
Mysteriously my spirit did oppress.

And forth I roam'd in that distressful mood,
Abroad into the sultry, sunless day;
All hung with one huge cloud,

That like a sable shroud

On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay.

Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms, (Instinctively my feet had wandered there,) And through that awful gloom,

Headstone and altar tomb

Among the dark heaps gleam'd with ghastlier glare.

Death, death was in my heart, as there I stood;
My eyes fast fixed on a grass-grown mound;
As though they would descry

The loathsome mystery

Consummating beneath that charnel ground.

Death, death was in my heart-methought I felt
A heavy hand that press'd me down below-

And some resistless power

Made me, in that dark hour,

Half long to be, where I abhorr'd to go.

Then suddenly-albeit no breeze was felt—

Through the tall tree-tops ran a shivering soundForth from the western heaven

Flash'd out the flaming levin,

And one long thunder peal roll'd echoing round.

One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace— · Cool rain-drops gemm'd the herbage-large and few; And that dull vault of lead

Disparting overhead,

Down beam'd an eye of soft celestial blue.

And up toward the heavenly portal sprang
A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain ;-
Up from my very feet-

And oh how clear and sweet

Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain.

"Blithe, blessed creature! take me there with thee," I cried in spirit-passionately cried

But higher still, and higher

Rang out that living lyre,

As if the bird disdain'd me in its pride.

And I was left below, but now no more

Plunged in the doleful realms of death and night; Up with the skylark's lay

My soul had winged its way

To the supernal Source of life and light.

TO WORDSWORTH.

MRS. HEMANS.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ;-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
E'en such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words. While in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.

True bard and holy !—thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,

In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie; Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.

THE SHIP AT ANCHOR.

CARRINGTON.

Is she not beautiful? reposing there

On her own shadow, with her white wings furled; Moveless, as in the sleepy, sunny air,

Rests the meek swan in her own quiet world.

Is she not beautiful? her graceful bow

Triumphant rising o'er the enamoured tides; That, glittering in the noonday sunbeam, now Just leap and die along her polished sides.

A thousand eyes are on her; for she floats

Confessed a queen upon the subject main;
And hark, as from her decks delicious notes
Breathe, softly breathe, a soul-entrancing strain.

Music upon the waters! pouring soft

From shore to shore along the charmed wave;
The seaman's dreariest toils beguiling oft,
And kindling high the ardour of the brave.

Yet, wafted by the morning's favouring breeze,
Far from the slumb'ring flood and leaf-hung bay,
That matchless bark upon the faithless seas
Shall wind her wild and solitary way.

There haply tempest-borne, far other sounds

Than those shall tremble through her quivering form; And as from surge to mightier surge she bounds, Shall swell, toned infinite, the midnight storm!