Hear then benignly, nor refuse
To bathe me in Pienian dews."

When thus, from out the gloom profound Of intermingling branches, stole

A voice celestial, that my soul
In rapt attention bound.

"Well hast Thou done to court once more
These shades renown'd, where, oft of yore,
The vocal Daughters of the Sky
In bright assemblage wont to meet,
Beneath, O! once belov'd Retreat,
Thy leafy Canopy !

No longer sacred now!-For here
Mad Comus and his Rout appear
With feet unholy, revelling wild,
And scare from their sequester'd seat,
Solitude and Silence sweet,

And Contemplation mild.

The Spirits of the illustrious dead,

(Who joy'd in life, these haunts to tread,

Refulgent gems of elder time)

Disdaining now to hover nigh,
Indignant from these orgies fly,

And seek their Skies sublime!

Haste Thou, the infatuate crouds to tell, Who yield them to the wizard's spell,

Too soon shall Circe's power deploreAround their temples let them twine, Like phrenzied Bacchanals, the vine, But laurels pluck no more!

From high we summon to our aid
The immortal Ægis-bearing Maid,
Before whose spear's resistless might,
The Sorcerer and his vassals base,
Discomfited with foul disgrace,

Are hurl'd to Stygian Night!

Then England's Athens shall behold

A new Elysian Age of Gold,

Wisdom, from Schoolmen's chains, unbound, Science and Order rule again!

The Muses' and the Virtues' train

Shall sanctify the Ground!"

C. H. S.

FRAGMENTS.

By GEORGE GOODWIN.

Now o'er the hills the shades of Night are fled And pleasant is the Morn. The rising Sun Pours his faint radiance o'er the smiling fields And animates the scene. From every branch The wandering minstrels of the air are heard Hailing his orient beams.

But not to thee

Meek Spirit, not to thee the Morn is fair
Nor gleam the sunbeams cheerily. Alas!
The early carols of the woodland choir,
Echoing so sweetly in the dewy fields,
Thou hearest not. Wrapt in the arms of death
Thou can'st not feel the rising Sun's warm ray,
Thou can'st not mark the beauty of the Morn,
For dark and silent is thy narrow cell!

II.

Anticipation strew'd thy early path

With fairest flowers. Young Hope on golden wings
Around thee fluttering, drew ambrosial dreams

Of happiness to come ; and Love bestow'd
The growing pleasures of connubial life,
And thou wert then most happy-but not long
Ill-fated Harriet! were those joys allowed.
Death summoned thee in youth and happiness-
He summoned thee, and thou obeyed'st the call
And now the bleak winds wander o'er thy grave!

But there is ONE whom thou hast left behind,
Who loves sincerely at the silent hour,

To talk of thee, as round the fire we sit
Heark'ning the wind's wild harmony, for then
The soul refin'd with melancholy joy
Delights to meditate on other days

And think on friends departed! He hath said,
The rose was never on thy cheek, but there
The milder lily bloom'd. And in thine eye

A modest sweetness beam'd that touch'd the soul