The small dust-coloured beetle climbs with pain

O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain! [conveyed, Thence higher still, by countless steps He gains the summit of a shivering blade, And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around,

Exulting in his distance from the ground. The tender speckled moth here dancing

seen,

The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green,
And all prolific Summer's sporting train,
Their little lives by various powers sustain.
But what can unassisted vision do? [sue?
What, but recoil where most it would pur-
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh,
When music waking speaks the skylark
nigh!
[sings,
Just starting from the corn she cheerly
And trusts with conscious pride her downy
wings;

Still louder breathes, and in the face of day
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark

her way.

Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wandering bird before his sight;

Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by,

Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; Her form, her motion, undistinguished quite, [to light: Save when she wheels direct from shade The fluttering songstress a mere speck became,

Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream. He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close.

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SAMUEL ROGERS.

1762-1855

THE OLD HOME.
From Pleasures of Memory.

TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village green,

With magic tints to harmonize the scene; Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet

broke,

When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,

And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no

more

With treasured tales and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here: What secret charms this silent spot endear! Mark yon old Mansion, frowning through the trees, [breeze. Whose hollow turret woos the whistling That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, [conveyed. First to these eyes the light of heaven The mouldering gateway shows the grassgrown court, [sport; Once the calm scene of many a simple When nature pleased, for life itself was new, Andthe heart promised what the fancy drew. See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,

The martin's old hereditary nest. [guest! Long may the ruin spare its hallowed As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall where once, in antiquated state The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree,

We sweetened every meal with social glee; The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,

And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the

sound,

[round;

And turned the blindfold hero round and 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring, And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing: Giants and genii claimed each wondering

ear,

And orphan sorrow drew the ready tear; Oft with the Babes we wandered in the wood,

Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood; Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling steps we scaled the lonely tower,

O'er int int innocence to hang and weep, Murdered by ruffian hands when smiling its sleep.

As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,

We watched the emmet. to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,

Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring. [rhyme, How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; afraid,

Soared in the swing, half pleased, and half Thro' sister elms that waved their summer shade; [seat, Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat.

The drowsy brood that on her back she Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of [bayed;

blackest shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching
view,
[hopes and fears,
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with
To learn the colour of my future years!
Ah! then what honest triumph flushed my
breast:
[blest!

This truth once known-to bless is to be
We led the bending beggar on his way
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey,
Soothed the keen pangs his agèd spirit felt)
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt,

As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sighed to think that little was no more, He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight, [sight. Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the

-0

MEMORY.

HAIL, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless
mine,
[shine!
From age to age unnumbered treasures
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call
obey,
[sway.

And Place and Time are subject to thy
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone,
The only pleasure we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions die
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo! Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away;
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her
flight,

Pour round her path a stream of living light, And gild those pure and perfect realms of [blest.

rest.

Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

"

"SAY, what remains when Hope is fled?"
She answered, Endless weeping,'
For in the herdsman's eye she read
Who in his shroud lay sleeping.
At Embsay rang the matin-bell,
The stag was roused on Barden-fell,
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;
When near the cabin in the wood,
In tartan clad and forest green,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
The Boy of Egremond was seen.
Blithe was his song-a song of yore;
But where the rock is rent in two
And the river rushes through,
His voice was heard no more.
'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed,
But that step,-it was his last!

*

* The slid over the river Wharfe.

As through the mist he winged his way
(A cloud that hovers night and day),
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The master and his merlin too,

That narrow place of noise and strife
Received their little all of life.
There now the matin-bell is rung,
The "Miserere" duly sung;
And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wandering up and down the wood,
But what avail they, ruthless lord?
Thou didst not shudder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless, and the innocent.
Sit now, and answer groan for groan,-
The child before thee is thine own!
And she who wildly wanders there
The mother in her long despair,
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe are weeping:
Of those who would not be consoled
When red with blood the river rolled.

GINEVRA.

IF thou shouldst ever come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; but before thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

་་

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth ;She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said Beware!"-her vest of gold [head to footBroidered with flowers, and clasped from An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heartIt haunts me still, though many a year has fled,

Like some wild melody!-Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to
him?

The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight.
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every
tongue.
[hour;
But now the day was come, the day, the
And in the lustre of her youth she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, When all sat down, the bride was wanting there

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, [spread.

And soon from guest to guest the panic 'Twas but that instant she had left Fran[still, cesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,

seen

But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have [thing, An old man wandering as in quest of someSomething he could not find--he knew not what. [awhile When he was gone, the house remained Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said [Ginevra, By one as young, as thoughtless, as "Why not remove it from its lurkingplace?" [way

'Twas done as soon as said; but on the It burst-it fell; and lo! a skeleton; And here and there a pearl,an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold: All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of bothGINEVRA."There then had she found a grave! [self, Within that chest had she concealed herFluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; [there, When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush Fastened her down for ever!

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuing: it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still; A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love (And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,

[tale

And made all gentle sounds tell back the
Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain,
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme