At last you entered shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-viewed,
Through which the distant palace now and then
Looked lordly forth with many-windowed ken;
A land of trees, — which reaching round about
In shady blessing stretched their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.

And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;

And all about, a lovely sky of blue

Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through; And here and there, in every part, were seats,

Some in the open walks, some in retreats,

With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Looked up half sweetly and half awfully, –
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Thronged in dark pillars up the gold green light.

But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way, And formed of both, the loveliest portion lay, A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground: It was a shallow dell, set in a mound Of sloping orchards, — fig, and almond trees, Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses; Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, (You saw it not, but heard) there gushed a rill, Whose low sweet talking seemed as if it said Something eternal to that happy shade.

The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers Heaped towards the centre, half of citron bowers; And in the middle of those golden trees,

Half seen amidst the globy oranges,

Lurked a rare summer-house, a lovely sight, -
Small, marble, well-proportioned, creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more, -
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged as it entered by the vine-leaves thin.

It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill, Spared from the rage of war, and perfect still; By some supposed the work of fairy hands,· Famed for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,

Alcina or Morgana, who from fights

And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And lived with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 't was a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carved a sacrifice

By girls and shepherds brought, with reverend eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about, ran, on a line with this,

In like relief, a world of pagan bliss,

That shewed, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves; Some by the water-side, on bowery shelves

Leaning at will, some in the stream at play, —
Some pelting the young Fauns with buds of May, –
Or half-asleep pretending not to see

The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters glide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen

A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

FROM CORN-LAW RHYMES.' 17

SONG.

CHILD, is thy father dead?
Father is gone!

Why did they tax his bread?

God's will be done!
Mother has sold her bed;

Better to die than wed!

Where shall she lay her head?

Home we have none !

Father clammed thrice a week

God's will be done!
Long for work did he seek,

Work he found none.

Tears on his hollow cheek

Told what no tongue could speak:

Why did his master break?

God's will be done!

BATTLE SONG.

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;
What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the cock crows - hark!
To arms! away!

They come ! they come! the knell is rung

Of us or them;

Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung
Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway,

What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar,

Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar ?
They do his will.

Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse

No splendor gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow,

Condensed in ire!

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know

Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil

Insults the land;

powers,

Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,

And God's right hand!

Madmen! they trample into snakes

The wormy clod!

Like fire, beneath their feet awakes
The sword of God!

Behind, before, above, below,
They rouse the brave;
Where'er they go, they make a foe,
Or find a grave.

GOD said

THE PRESS.

'Let there be light!'

Grim darkness felt his might,

And fled away;

Then startled seas and mountains cold

Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,

And cried

''Tis day! 't is day!'

'Hail, holy light!' exclaimed

The thund'rous cloud, that flamed
O'er daisies white;

And, lo! the rose, in crimson dressed,
Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast;

And, blushing, murmured-Light!'
Then was the skylark born;

Then rose th' embattled corn;

Then floods of praise

Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Poured forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb?

No, by the mind of man!

By the swart artizan !

By God, our Sire !

Our souls have holy light within,

And every form of grief and sin