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46

ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;

With rock wall-encircled-with precipice crowned-
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound.
'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies,
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies,
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold.

Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in repose-
In the depths of thy desert, regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath,
In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar,-
In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more,―
Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign:
—–But, what if the stag on the mountain be slain ?
On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay,
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day-
While the hunter and hound in their terror retreat
From the death that is spurned from his furious feet ;-
And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

SERENADE.

BY C. F. HOUSEMAN.

THE brook is purling on its way,
Amid a thousand flowers;

It seems not night, but paler day,
So clear the moonlight hours:
And many a light step treads the green,
And music now begins-

The tinkling of the light guitar,

The sound of mandolins!

Come forth, my love, and I will weave
A garland for thy brow;

The brightest roses, kissed by eve,
Are shining brighter now!

The moonlight loses half its charms,
However bright, for me,

If 'tis not shared with thee, my love,

If 'tis not shared with thee!

'TIS HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS.

'Tis home where'er the heart is;
Where'er it's loved ones dwell,

In cities or in cottages,

Thronged haunts, or mossy dell:

The heart's a rover ever,

And thus on wave and wild,
The maiden with her lover walks,
The mother and her child.

48

'TIS HOME WHERE'ER THE HEART IS.

'Tis bright where'er the heart is;
Its fairy spells can bring
Fresh fountains to the wilderness,
And to the desert-spring.
There are green isles in each ocean,
O'er which affection glides;
And a haven on each rugged shore,
When love's the star that guides.

'Tis free where'er the heart is;
Nor chain nor dungeon dim,
May check the mind's aspirings,
The spirit's pealing hymn!
The heart gives life its beauty,
Its glory and its power,-
'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream,
And soft dew to its flower.

THE LUTE.

BY THE REV. G. CROLY.

I have seen the scymetar in the Sahib's hands, and the sceptre in the Rajah's; I have seen the one rusted, and the other broken. And I have seen the lute ring over the graves of the Sahib and the Rajah. Let me then take the lute, and with it win thee.

Bengalee Poem.

THE masters of the earth have died,
Their kingly strength is dust and air!
Within their breasts of fire and pride,
The worm has made his quiet lair.
I feel the world is vanity,

And take my lute, and sing to thee.

I saw the Rajah armed for war;

I saw his chieftains trampling round;
I saw his banner like a star;

I heard his trumpet's stormy sound:
On rushed they like the rising sea-
I took my lute, and sang to thee.

The eve was on the mountain's brow:
I heard the echo of despair;

I saw the host returning slow

The Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare;
I saw his gore, and wept to see :-
That eve I touched no lute to thee.

My steps were once in lordly halls,
My brow once wore the diadem;
A thousand barbs were in my stalls,
Upon my banner blazed the gem :-
All fled, like dreams, so let them flee-
I take my lute, and sing to thee.

What's life?-at best, a wandering breath;
When saddest, but a passing sigh;
When happiest, but a summer wreath-
A sigh of roses floating by.

Soon, soon alike, the bond and free-
So sings my lute, and sings to thee.

Then, come, Sherene! I've found a grove,
Beneath a wild hill's purple van,
Where coos the silver-bosomed dove;

Where the wild peacock spreads his fan;
Where springs the roebuck in his glee:
Love, hear my lute, it sings to thee!

There, on the valley's blossomed slope,
Shines to the sun the pheasant's plume,

There, like a ray, the antelope

LYRE.

Gleams through the thicket's fragrant gloom.

F

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The stately camel bends the knee :-
Love, hear my lute-" "Tis all for thee."

There morn is like a new-waked rose,
And like a rosy shower the noon;
And evening, like a sweet song's close;
And like a sun half veiled, the moon.
But dark my Paradise will be :-
Soul of my soul, I die for thee.

THERE MAY BE PLEASURE IN THE SOUND.

THERE may be pleasure in the sound
Of trumpets in the battle wailing,
And joy to hear the vessel bound
Along the summer billows sailing;
But never sound so sweet can be
As voice of female melody!

There may be joy to list the chime

Of horn and hound, 'mid green hills ringing,
And, in the Spring's calm evening time,

To hear the thrush and blackbird singing;
But never sound so sweet can be

As voice of female melody!

But sweet though be that silvery voice
In hours of pleasure or of sorrow,

Its tones best bid the heart rejoice,

When soft affection's words they borrow.
Oh! then what sounds so sweet can be
As voice of female melody?

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