DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending

ground,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief

She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy

Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety. - Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for ONE; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. - Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed Our children should obey her child, and blessed Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like stars to shepherds' eyes:-'t was but a meteor

beamed.

SUN-SET.

BYRON.

How dear to me the hour when day-light dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 't would lead to some bright isle of rest! MOORE.

C

THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS

HARP.

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,

And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'T is now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell And now 't is silent all - Enchantress! fare-thee-well! Scott.

MOONLIGHT.

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky
The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams
Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque,
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here, o'er the chesnut's fretted foliage grey
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh how awfully
Into that deep and tranquil firmament
The summits of Auseva rise serene!
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth, the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,
Which in that brightest moonlight well-nigh quenched
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence
Toward eternity the attempered mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently
Prefers her hymn of praise.

SOUTHEY.

THALABA.

THEN did the damsel say to Thalaba,
"The morn is young, the sun is fair,
And pleasantly through pleasant banks
Yon quiet stream flows on."

He sate him on the single seat,
The little boat moved on.
Through pleasant banks the quiet stream
Went winding pleasantly;
By fragrant fir-groves now it passed,
And now through alder-shores,
Through green and fertile meadows now
It silently ran by.
The flag-flower blossomed on its side,
The willow-tresses waved,
The flowing current furrowed round
The water-lily's floating leaf,
The fly of green and gauzy wing
Fell sporting down its course;
And grateful to the voyager
The freshness that it breathed,
And soothing to his ear
Its murmur round the prow.
The little boat falls rapidly
Adown the rapid stream.

But many a silent spring meantime,
And many a rivulet and rill,