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Ye furious powers, no more contend;
O'er flying clouds the sun prevails,
And fill no more the flagging sails ;
course she keeps,
And views the still reflecting seas ;
He hopes to wake the slumb'ring breeze.
When all the passions fill'd my breast,
And pray'd, but vainly pray'd, for rest.
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
Greek sculpture ;-in some earlier days perhaps
bearing on her head
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,
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,
“ 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 ;
A better dower than wealth or land
Thy true heart here hath bravely won;
In our new peerage, spirit-framed;
Of those beneath our banner named ;
The vile and worthy-false and true,-
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 !
The names of old from sea to sea,
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 brave, “ The Brave;" Titles not bought and sold for blood
Like those our war-girt monarchs gave, —
Look on our noble once again,
None nobler graced the ranks of old: