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Ye furious powers, no more contend;
Ye winds, and seas, your contest end,
And on the mild subsiding deep,
Let fear repose and terror sleep!
At length the waves are hush'd in peace,

O'er flying clouds the sun prevails,
The weary winds their efforts cease,

And fill no more the flagging sails ;
Fixed to tbe deep the vessel rides,
Obedient to the changing tides ;
No helm she feels, no

course she keeps,
But on the liquid marble sleeps.
Sick of a calm the sailor lies

And views the still reflecting seas ;
Or whistling to the burning skies,

He hopes to wake the slumb'ring breeze.
The silent noon, the silent night,
The same dull round of thoughts excite;
Till, tired of the revolving train,
He wishes for the storm again.
Thus when I felt the force of Love,

When all the passions fill'd my breast,
When trembling with the storm I strove,

And pray'd, but vainly pray'd, for rest.
'Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife
For ease, for joy, for more than life:
'Twas every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.


ROGERS has been termed the drawing-room poet, so refined are all his compositions. It is true that he studies elegance more than power: probably it is the characteristic of his mind ; but he is not wholly alie from nature. The popularity of his works proves their substantial worth. Here is a beautifully descriptive passage.

It was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief, -

Greek sculpture ;-in some earlier days perhaps
A tomb, and honour'd with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled, overflow'd it;
Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing, unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees-discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. . Overcome with heat,
I threw me down, admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a maid a-Maying.
The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus ; and now approach'd
The hour for stir and village gossip there;
The hour Rebecca came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and, lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear'd, -
Appear'd and vanish’d,

bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.
At length there came the loveliest of them all,
Her little brother dancing down before her;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there
She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink;
And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tiptoe,
Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile,
Nor stirr'd till he had done,---fix'd as a statue.
Then, hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endowed them with eternal youth ;
And they had evermore lived undivided, -
Winning all hearts—of all thy works the fairest.


STANZAS ON REVISITING SHREWSBURY. This poem, so original in its structure, and in some passages so fine, was published under the name of PETER CORCORAN, supposed to be one of the titles assumed by REYNOLDS.

I REMEMBER well the time,—the sweet sweet schoolboy

time, When all was careless thought with me, and summer was

my sleep: I wish I could recall that schoolboy day of prime, For manhood is a sorry thing, -and mine is plunged deep

In faults that bid me weep. I remember well the Severn's fair stream and peerless

flight: How can I e'er forget her silent glory and her speed ? The wild deer of all rivers was she then unto my sight; But now in common lustre doth she hurry through the mead,

Her flow I do not heed.

with joy ;

A copse there was of hazels,-a cloud of radiant green,

A lustrous veil of fruitful leaves to hide the world from me; It seem'd when I was nutting there to be a fairy scene, Ab! never more thereafter a fairy scene to bem

Save in sad memory! For my schoolboy limbs the river ran riot through the night;

The fields were full of starlike flowers and overgrown The trees around my play-ground were a very stately sight; But some spirit hath gone over me to wither and destroy,

6. Who would not be a Boy ? " The towers of that old house, in which I did abide, When early days were friends with me, seem alter'd to

my eyes; They do not stand so solemnly at night in moonlight pride, As when upon the silver hours by stealth I did arise

For garden revelries. And in the river's place, and the nut-trees, and the night,

And the poetry that is upon the moonlit earth,

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I have lone rooms, and musings sad, and a fast unceasing flight Of friends,—of self-esteem :- Oh! my heart aches in the dearth

Of honour and of worth !

'Tis vain to visit olden scenes,—they change like other friends; Their faces are not now the same, the youth of things is

gone. To others they may yet be bright,—and that must make

amends; The towers to them may yet arise and frown in awful stone,

The stream in light flow on!



THE NEW ORDER OF NOBILITY. In page 37 appears a very beautiful poem entitled Blessed be God for Flowers.” We have since learned that its author was Mrs. CHARLES TINSLEY, of whom a correspondent sends us this interesting account:

“ Town Hall, Manchester, 24th Feb. 1853. “SIR,—The poem is the first in place (I am bold to say not in order of merit) in Lays for the Thoughtful and the Solitary, published A.D. 1848 (Longman, Brown, Green and Longman.) Mrs. T'insley is also the author of The Priest of the Nile, and of another prose tale (of English life), which appeared in the Metropolitan Magazine. Her earliest publication was a volume of poetry in 1826, which I have not

The divinus afflatus had breathed over her spirit at an early age, for in her eighth year she lisp'd in numbers, and the numbers came.' I happen to have beside me the manuscript of a poem which appeared in the Lays, and which has, it appears to me, a full portion of manly fire. Perhaps it will bring Ebenezer Elliott to mind. I beg to send it to you. A mournful yet hopeful tone characterizes Mrs. Tinsley's writings generally ; and possibly that same tinge of mournfulness may be an obstacle to their success with the million ; but to those who can with their own hearts, and be still,' it has the ring of the sterling metal when struck on the holiest touchstone.

o tell them Life is short, but Love is long,
And brief the Sun of Summer in the North,
And brief the Moon of Beauty in the South.'
“I am, Sir,
“Your most obedient servant,

“ WILLIAM MʻQUHAE." We gladly give a place to this fine and spirited composition.

Stand forth, thou God-made noble, stand !

Old England asks no worthier son ;

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A better dower than wealth or land

Thy true heart here hath bravely won;
The right-by none misunderstood
Or question’d,—to rank as “The Good.”
Old Norman William hath no voice

In our new peerage, spirit-framed;
No rival Roses sway the choice

Of those beneath our banner named ;
Two paths henceforth throughout the earth
Shall give to rank its better birth.
These paths, that part the good and ill, -

The vile and worthy-false and true,-
The noble and ignoble,-still

Two classes only place in view ; And honour here, dishonour there, With us no other names may bear.

Stand forth ! first titled on our shore,

As unborn myriads yet shall be !
Renown more pure than that which bore

The names of old from sea to sea,
Shall find for thee in every place
A brother-spirit to embrace !

Far more it imports men to know,

To feel, to prove each other's worth, Than on that fame their thoughts bestow,

To which the past has given birth ;Call forth the living spirit's powers, And use them for this world of ours !

And let the good be named “The Good ;”
The true,

“ The True ; " the brave, “ The Brave;" Titles not bought and sold for blood

Like those our war-girt monarchs gave, —
And let the just be still “ The Just,
So men shall know wherein they trust.

Look on our noble once again,

None nobler graced the ranks of old:

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