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THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOËNS.

For still, while with his strong right arm

He buffeted the wave,

The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.

Was, then, the love of pelf so strong,
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,

Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;

For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem

That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled, till o'erspent,

His nerveless limbs no more

Could bear him on through the waves that rose

Like barriers to the shore;

Yet still he held his long-prized wealth,

He saw the wished-for land

A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died
Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect
Bowed down his haughty soul:
Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoëns' humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

TO THE CRICKET.

BY THE REVEREND THOMAS COLE.

SPRIGHTLY Cricket, chirping still
Merry music, short and shrill:
In my kitchen take thy rest
As a truly welcome guest;
For no evils shall betide

Those with whom thou dost reside.

Nor shall thy good-omened strain
E'er salute my ear in vain.
With the best I can invent
I'll requite the compliment;
Like thy sonnets, I'll repay
Little sonnets, quick and gay.

Thou, a harmless inmate deemed,
And by housewives much esteemed,
Wilt not pillage for thy diet,
Nor deprive us of our quiet;
Like the horrid rat voracious,
Or the lick'rish mouse sagacious;
Like the herd of vermin base,
Or the pilf'ring reptile race:
But content art thou to dwell
In thy chimney-corner cell;
There, unseen, we hear thee greet,
Safe and snug, thy native heat.

Thou art happier, happier, far,
Than the happy grasshopper,
Who, by nature, doth partake
Something of thy voice and make;
Skipping lightly o'er the grass,
As her sunny minutes pass;

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96

TO THE CRICKET.

For a summer month or two
She can sing and sip the dew;
But at Christmas, as in May,
Thou art ever brisk and gay,
Thy continued song we hear,
Trilling, thrilling, all the year.

Every day and every night
Bring to thee the same delight;
Winter, summer, cold or hot,
Late or early, matters not;
Mirth and music still declare
Thou art ever void of care:
Whilst with sorrows and with fears,
We destroy our days and years;
Thou, with constant joy and song,
Ev'ry minute dost prolong,
Making thus thy little span,
Longer than the age of Man.

SONG.

BY MISS LANDON.

ARE other eyes beguiling, Love?
Are other rose-lips smiling, Love?
Ah, heed them not; you will not find
Lips more true, or eyes more kind,
Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Are other fond sighs breathing, Love? Ah, heed them not; but call to mind The arms, the sighs, you leave behindAll thine, Love.

SONG.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
Breathe not other sighs, Love;
You may find many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love.

All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
Fonder still, 'mid sadness, Love;
Though changed from all that now thou art,
In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart
Would be the world to me, Love.

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RECOLLECTIONS.

I'VE pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in moments free from care,

Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her

hair;

Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies,

And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching eyes.

Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like

the swell

Of sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness

tell;

She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth,

And her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts, that linger not on earth.

LYRE.

K

98

RECOLLECTIONS.

A quiet goodness beamed amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive

grace;

She seemed as if she thought the world a good and pleasant one,

And her light spirit saw no ill in aught beneath the

sun.

I've dreamed of just such creatures, but they never met my view,

'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue.

And her smile came gently over me, like springs first scented airs,

And made me think life was not all a wilderness of

cares.

I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays,

But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days,

With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant things

That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's resistless wings.