THE NEGLECTED BARD.

GEORGE SMITH. FROM "THE CITY MUSE," 1853.

CHILD of the Lyre, 'tis hard of thee to sing
When stern reverses bind thy soaring wing,
Bind it to earth-and yet there's beauty there,
Food for the mind, as delicate and rare
As poets need to banquet on; a store
Thou may'st partake until the soul runs o'er.
And yet 'tis sad for Genius to behold

The eyes of soulless men, all calm and cold,
Pass o'er the beauties of his written thought,
So feelingly, so musically wrought,
Woven and interwoven with each change
Of the blest seasons, in their varied range
Of bud, and flower, and fruit of many hues
Pendant above the fructifying dews;
Of cloudless noon, of crimson sunset fair,
Of twilight's hallow'd hour, of silent prayer;
When his serene, aspiring thoughts ascend
From purest source of worship, thence to blend
With all that's beautiful in earth and skies,
Shrined in his soul, and mirror'd in his eyes.

Retard his dreamy flight, he back recoils To sordid earth's contaminating toils;

A space too narrow, his aspiring mind

Would leap the clouds, and grapple with the wind, Mix with the rainbow, revel in the storm,

And mould its power to every hue and form : Would chase the moon and stars athwart the night, And then emerging from the dreamy light

Of clustering clouds, like snowdrifts tinged with gold,
Still yearn new charms and wonders to behold;
Bathe in the fountains of celestial fire

And wake to louder voice the music of his lyre.
Inspiring hope bursts into loftier song,

More cheering, more exalting, and more strong
In thought poetic, or in pathos fine,

Than e'er was breathed from lowly lyre of mine.
How thrilling, throbbing, piercing, yet refined
His boundless genius rushes like the wind
Through mountain passes, deep, dark, lone, and wild,
Then sinks to quiet, like a weary child.
Still in his soul a plaintive voice is heard,
Ascending from the depths of hope deferr'd
By the cold world's neglect, or scornful look

Of men who see no beauty in the book

Of nature or of poet; men who find

More glory in their gold than all the realms of mind. Gloomy incentives to a soul embued

With all the poetry of gratitude,

That spiritual music of his lyre,

Which, but for hope, in silence would expire;

Now that lone harp, in many a bitter pang,

Wails in its master's woe, where once it sweetly sang.

FLORENCE VANE.

FROM "FROISSART BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS," BY PHILIP PENDLETON COKE, OF WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA,

I LOVED thee long and dearly
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision

My heart's dear pain,

My hope and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,

The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story

At even told,-
That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excell'd the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane !

But fairest, coldest wonder,
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under-
Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain-

To quicken Love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep;

The pansies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane.

THE CONTRAST.

FROM

LYRA URBANICA; OR THE SOCIAL EFFUSIONS
OF THE CELEBRATED CAPTAIN CHARLES MORRIS,
OF THE LATE LIFE GUARDS.

IN London I never know what I'd be at,

Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for man.

But the Country, God help me! sets all matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to night;
Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green.

In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope,

The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope;
What harm though it pour whole nights and whole days?
It spoils not our prospects, it stops not our ways.

In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields,
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields;