BYRON'S FINEST IMAGE.

[The following lines, from Lord Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, refer to Henry Kirke White, a too ardent student, born at Nottingham, England, March 21, 1785, and died at Cambridge, England, Oct. 19, 1806. Byron says of H. K. White: "His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume."]

Unhappy White! while life was in its spring,

And thy young muse just waved its joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science 'self destroy'd her favorite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the fatal blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nurs'd the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

Pa୧୧୧ ୨୨୨aa

KINDRED HEARTS.

MRS. HEMANS.

H! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It

may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring—
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times

A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;

The wind that, with so many a tone,

Some chord within can thrill,

These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true

And steadfast love of

years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,

The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,—

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

THE WATER LILY.

FELICIA D. B. HEMANS.

H! beautiful thou art,

Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.

Bright lily of the wave!

Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head

Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower,

The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,

As to the shower?

Oh! Love is most like thee,

The love of woman; quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 'MidstLife's dark sea.

And Faith-O, is not faith

Like thee, too, Lily, springing into light, Still buoyantly above the billows' might, Through the storm's breath?

Yes, link'd with such high thought, Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought:

Something yet more divine

Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, As from a shrine.