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WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty but no perfume!
Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing!
"Tis good both to sing and to weave!
'Tis better to work than live idle;
"Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colours of sunset glow!
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!
Let beauty about ye blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,
And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.
So-sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;

But toil is the lot of men;

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,
To the peasant that delves the soil,
That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil!

So,-sing, brothers, &c.

THE STORMY PETREL.

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THE SEA.

THE sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide region's round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go:

If a storm should come, and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outery wild
As welcomed to life the ocean child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sigh'd for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

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Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender mournful, murmuring Life! She hath seen her happy day;

She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away, Earth, into thy gentle bosom.

She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear!

Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies-sweet Love! Good she was, and fair in youth,

And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth; Take her, then, for evermoreFor ever-evermore!

A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW.

A DEEP and a mighty shadow

Across my heart is thrown,

Like a cloud on a summer meadow

Where the thunder-wind hath blown!

The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth,

The sweet bird, Memory, flieth,

And leaveth me alone

Alone with my hopeless sorrow:
No other mate I know!

I strive to awake to-morrow;

But the dull words will not flow! I pray-but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry heaven,

And weigh me down with wo!

I call on the past, to lend me

Its songs, to soothe my pain: I bid the dim future send me

A light from its eyes-in vain! Naught comes; but a shrill cry starteth From Hope, as she fast departeth :"I go, and come not again!"

THE QUADROON.

SAY they that all beauty lies

In the paler maiden's hue? Say they that all softness flies,

Save from the eyes of April blue? Arise thou, like a night in June, Beautiful Quadroon!

Come-all dark and bright, as skies

With the tender starlight hung! Loose the love from out thine eyes! Loose the angel from thy tongue! Let them hear heaven's own sweet tune, Beautiful Quadroon!

Tell them-Beauty (born above) From no shade nor hue doth fly; All she asks is mind, is love,

And both upon thine aspect lieLike the light upon the moon, Beautiful Quadroon!

AN EPITAPH.

He died, and left the world behind!
His once wild heart is cold!
His once keen eye is quell'd and blind!
What more ?-His tale is told.

He came, and, baring his heaven-bright thought,
He earn'd the base world's ban:
And-having vainly lived and taught,
Gave place to a meaner can!

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

O SWEET South Wind!

Long hast thou linger'd midst those islands fair,
Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep,
Like sea-maids all asleep,

Charm'd by the cloudless sun and azure air!
O sweetest southern wind!

Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind
Thy dark rose-crowned hair!

Wilt thou not unloose now,
In this, the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-colour'd flowers?

Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow
On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes,
And on her cheeks, which crimson-liked the skies;
And slumber on her bosom, white as snow,
Whilst starry midnight flies!

We, whom the northern blast

Blows on, from night till morn, from morn to eve, Hearing thee, sometimes grieve

That our poor summer's day not long may last: And yet, perhaps, 'twere well

We should not ever dwell

With thee, sweet spirit of the sunny south;
But touch thy odorous mouth

Once, and be gone unto our blasts again,

And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow;
And arm us (by enduring) for that pain
Which the bad world sends forth, and all its wo!

MUSIC.

All seem akin

I SEE Small difference
"Twixt one sound and its next.
And run on the same feet, ever.
Peace! Thou want'st

One heavenly sense, and speak'st in ignorance.
Seest thou no differing shadows which divide
The rose and poppy? "Tis the same with sounds.
There's not a minute in the round of time [space
But's hinged with different music. In that small
Between the thought and its swift utterance-
Ere silence buds to sound--the angels, listening,
Hear infinite varieties of song!

And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres
Have flown an evening's journey.

FLOWERS.

WE have left behind us

The riches of the meadows, and now come
To visit the virgin primrose where she dwells,
Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths.
"Tis there she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank
The sun is kissing? Near-go near! for there,
('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling
Immaculate odours from the violet [grasses,)
Spring up for ever: Like sweet thoughts that come
Wing'd from the maiden fancy, and fly off
In music to the skies, and there are lost,
These ever-steaming odours seek the sun
And fade in the light he scatters.

REMEMBERED LOVE.

On power of love! so fearful and so fair-
Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care—
Oh! thou day-dreaming spirit who dost look
Upon the future as the charmed book

Of Fate were open'd to thine eyes alone-
Thou who dost cull, from moments stolen and gone
Into eternity, memorial things,

To deck the days to come-thy revelings
Were glorious and beyond all others. Thou
Didst banquet upon beauty once; and now
The ambrosial feast is ended! Let it be
Enough to say "It was." Oh! upon me,
From thy o'ershadowing wings ethereal,
Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all
Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power,
And on the breath of every coming hour
Send me faint tidings of the things that were.

KINGS.

METHINKS

There's something lonely in the state of kings! None dare come near them. As the eagle, poised

Upon his sightless throne in upper air,

Scares gentle birds away, so kings (cut off
From human kindred by the curse of power)
Are shunn'd and live alone. Who dare come near
The region of a king? There is a wall
(Invisible, indeed, yet strong and high)
Which fences kings from close approach of men.
They live respected-oh, that chest "respect!"
As if the homage that abases others
Could comfort him that has't. Alone-alone!
Prison'd in ermine and a velvet chair-
Shut out from hope, (the height being all attain❜d,)
Yet touch'd by terrors-what can soothe a king!

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

"Tis night-still night! The murmuring world lies still!

All things which are lie still and whisper not;
The owl, the bat, the clock which strikes the hour
And summons forgetful man to think of heaven,
The midnight cricket on the ashy hearth,
Are quiet, dumb! Hope, Fear, lie drown'd in dreams;
And conscience, calmer than a baby's breath.
Murders the heart no more. Who goes? "Tis naught,
Save the bird echo, who comes back to me
Afraid o' the silence. Love! art thou asleep?
Rose o' the night, on whom the soft dew lies,
Here come I, sweet, mocking the nightingale,
To sing of endless love, passionate pain,
And wishes that know no rest!

HAPPINESS.

A MONTH ago I was happy! No, Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy,

Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch. But it was ever thus with Happiness:

It is the gay to-morrow of the mind

That never comes.

TO THE SINGER PASTA.

NEVER till now-never till now, O Queen

And wonder of the enchanted world of sound! Never till now was such bright creature seen, Startling to transport all the regions round! Whence comest thou-with those eyes and that fine mien,

Thou sweet, sweet singer? Like an angel found Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled) A star 'mong clouds-a spirit mid the dead.

Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings

Perpetual sweetness near-divine despair! Thou speak'st-and music, with her thousand strings,

Gives golden answers from the haunted air! Thou movest-and round thee grace her beauty flings!

Thou look'st-and love is born! O songstress rare! Lives there on earth a power like that which lies In those resistless tones-in those dark eyes?

Oh, I have lived-how long!-with one deep treasure,

One fountain of delight unlock'd, unknown; But thou, the prophetess of my new pleasure, Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone; And now outgushes, without stint or measure, The endless rapture-and in places lone I shout it to the stars and winds that flee, And then I think on all I owe to thee!

I see thee at all hours-beneath all skies

In every shape thou takest, or passionate path: Now art thou like some wing'd thing that cries Over a city flaming fast to death;

Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies:

Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath :All things thou art by turns-from wrath to love; From the queen eagle to the vestal dove! Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmask’d In slow pale silence, or mid brief eclipse); But what are they to thy sweet strength, when task'd To its height-with all the God upon thy lips? Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked

By one who in the book of darkness dips, Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit. Would I could crown thee as a king can crown! Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame, Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drownWhose light shall darken every meaner name? The gallant courts thee for his own renown;

Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game: The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse; And I-alas!-I can but bring my verse!

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

Оn thou vast Ocean! ever sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a dread immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which downward hurl'd
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath naught of this: no chance or
change

Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-waken air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go:
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;
But to their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their viewless home,
And come again, and vanish: the young spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild autumn with a look forlorn
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken when the summer

flies.

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HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

FEW writers of verses have been more overrated than HENRY KIRKE WHITE, and it is a shame, that while there has never appeared in this country a single edition of the poetical writings of LANDOR, KENYON, MILNES, Miss BARRETT, and others of similar merit, there have been more impressions of WHITE than there have been of MILTON, or POPE, or COLE

RIDGE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE was born in Nottingham, on the twenty-first of March, 1785. He was deemed a dull boy at school, where at the early age of eleven he began to write verses to satirize his teacher, for supposed injuries. He was in his fifteenth year articled to an attorney, in his native town, and while in his office acquired by diligent application a knowledge of the Greek, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian languages. An unfortunate deafness induced him to abandon the study of the law, and he published a small volume of poems with the expectation that the profits would enable him to enter one of the univer

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

OH! yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home!
Oh! welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam! Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband:

But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report

Allured me from my native land; It bade me rove-my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights,

That graced yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet. Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen

Shall while away the winter's eve.

sities. In this he was disappointed; but several gentlemen stepped forward and became his patrons, and he entered St. John's College, at Cambridge, where he soon obtained a high reputation among his classmates for scholarship and for his personal virtues. His health was quickly impaired by his constant and earnest devotion to study, and he died on the nineteenth of October, 1806, in the twentyfirst year of his age.

His poetical writings were collected soon after his death, and published with an elegant memoir by Dr. SOUTHEY. The admiration which they excited is said to have been almost unexampled. But a more correct estimate of his abilties now obtains. He was scarcely equal to the DAVIDSONS of New York, and it would be almost as absurd to compare him with KEATS or CHATTERTON as to compare ROBERT MONTGOMERY with MILTON. I doubt whether if he had lived to the maturest age, he would have produced any thing in poetry above elegant mediocrity.

Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband; But all their charms could not prevail, To steal my heart from yonder vale.

CANZONET.

MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, Cold the rain beats on thy breast: Why should horror's voice astound thee, Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden once gay Pleasure knew thee;

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: Love has been a felon to thee,

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

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