Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not SUNSET. BYRON. THE moon is up, and yet it is not night— Where the day joins the past eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest! A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, From the rich sunset to the rising star, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone, and—all is gray. A STILL WINTER'S NIGHT. SHELLEY. How beautiful this Night! The balmiest sigh That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, So stainless, that their white and glittering spears A metaphor of Peace,-all form a scene WHAT IS LIFE? NEELE. TELL me, what is Life, I pray? 'Tis a changing April day, Now dull as March, now blithe as May; Nought certain but th' approach of night; Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell?- At first, it rings of hope and pleasure, Yet tell, I prithee, what is Life?- A tale, that first enchants the ear, Yet what is Life, again declare ?- H Many a hue, but none that last, Still, what is Life?-A taper's light, THE LAST SWALLOW. R. HOWITT. AWAY-away-why dost thou linger here, When all thy fellows o'er the sea have pass'd? Wert thou the earliest comer of the year, Loving our land, and so dost stay the last? Hear'st thou no warning in the autumnal blast? And is the sound of growing streams unheard? Dost thou not see the woods are fading fast, Whilst the dull leaves with wailful winds are stirred? Haste, haste to other climes, thou solitary bird! Thy coming was in lovelier skies-thy wing, Alone we hear the robin's pensive lay; And from the sky of beauty darkness lowers : Thy coming was with hope, but thou dost stay 'Midst melancholy thoughts, that dwell upon decay. Blessed are they who have before thee fled! Theirs have been all the pleasures of the prime ; Like those who die before their joys are dead, Leaving a lovely for a lovelier clime, Soaring to beautiful worlds on wings sublime; Whilst thou dost mind me of their doom severe, Who live to feel the winter of their time; Who linger on, till not a friend is nearThen fade into the grave-and go without a tear. THE DAISY IN INDIA. J. MONTGOMERY. THRICE Welcome, little English flower! Thrice welcome, little English flower! Shut close their leaves while vapours lower; |