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“Fair child, whose face is like to mine,

Oh, come,” he said, “and fly with me;
Come forth to happiness divine,

For earth is all unworthy thee.
Here perfect bliss thou canst not know;

The soul amidst its pleasures sighs;
All sounds of joy are full of wo;

Enjoyments are but miseries.
Fear stalks amidst the


And, though serene the day may rise,
It lasts not brilliant to its close,

And tempests sleep in calmest skies.
Alas! shall sorrow, doubts, and fears,

Deform a brow so pure as this?
And shall the bitterness of tears

Dim those blue eyes that speak of bliss ?
No, no !-along the realms of space,

Far from all care let us begone;
Kind Providence shall give thee grace

For those few years thou might'st live on.
No mourning weeds, no sound of wail,

Thy chainless spirit shall annoy;
Thy kindred shall thy absence hail

Even as thy coming gave them joy.
No cloud on any brow shall rest,

Nought speak of tombs or sadness there;
Of beings like thee, pure and blest,

The latest hour shall be most fair."

The angel shook his snowy wings,

And through the fields of ether sped,
Where heaven's eternal music rings-

Mother, alas ! thy son is dead!



FAIR Astræa, quit thy sphere,

Thou, so longed for in our clime;
Come, and make thy sojourn here

For a time!
Civil flames have now too long
Coursed our towns and vales among,

Stirring wrath and whetting swords;
Long hath famine gnawed our hoards;
Pestilence, and ruin's darts,
Long have lost us thy sweet arts.

Tempests do not ever roar

In the trembling pilot's ears ;
Rocks do not on every shore

Wake his fears.
Thunder, terrible and loud,
Comes not always from the cloud,
Nor the flashing, nor the flame;
Ofttimes will the storm grow tame,
And the gloom will disappear,
And the clouded sky be clear.

Show to us thy lovely face,

At this season fresh and new,
Let us, for sweet ruth, find grace

In thy view.
Let, beneath thy honoured hand,
Golden grain re-deck the land !
Come, more gracious than the star
Which directs the solar car,
When the god on the void air
Shakes abroad his golden hair!

When thy coming is at hand,

Let the heavens pour on the winds
Odours sweet and perfumes bland,

Of all kinds,
With honey and with manna showers ;
So that this fair France of ours
May enjoy a beauteous spring,
To which time no end shall bring,
Nor the changes that have birth

On this fickle, shifting earth.


APRIL, sweet month, the daintiest of all.

Fair thee befall !
April, fond hope of fruits that lie
In buds of swathing cotton wrapt,

There closely lapt:
Nursing their tender infancy.

April, that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,

All round thee strew,
When, as thou goest, the grassy

Is with a million flowers depaint,

Whose colours quaint,
Have diapered the meadows o'er.

April, at whose glad coming zephyrs rise

With whispered sighs,
Then on their light wing brush away,
And hang amid the woodlands fresh

Their airy mesh,
To tangle Flora on her way.
April, it is thy hand that doth unlock,

From plain and rock,
Odours and hues, a balmy store,
That breathing lie on nature's breast,

So richly blest,
That earth or heaven can ask no more..

April, thy blooms, amid the tresses laid

Of my sweet maid,
Adown her neck and bosom flow;
And in a wild profusion there,

Her shining hair
With them hath blent a golden glow.
April, the dimpled smiles, the playful grace,

That in the face
Of Cytherea haunt, are thine;
And thine the breath, that from their skies

The deities
Inhale, an offering at thy shrine.

'Tis thou that dost with summons blithe and soft,

High up aloft,
From banishment these heralds bring,
These swallows, that along the air

Scud swift, and bear
Glad tidings of the merry spring,

April, the hawthorn and the eglantine,

Purple woodbine,
Streaked pink, and lily-cup, and rose,
And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading;

Where thou art treading,
And their sweet eyes for thee unclose.

The little nightingale sits singing aye

On leafy spray,
And in her fitful strain doth run
A thousand and a thousand changes,

With voice that ranges
Through every sweet division.
April, it is when thou dost come again,

That love is fain
With gentlest breath the fires to wake,
That covered up and slumbering lay,

Through many a day,
When winter's chill our veins did slake.
Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime

Of the spring-time,
The hives pour out their lusty young,
And hearest the yellow bees that ply,

With laden thigh,
Murmuring the flowery wilds among.
May shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold,

His fruits of gold,
His fertilising dews, that swell
In manna on each spike and stem,

And, like a gem,
Red honey in the waxen cell.
Who will, may praise him; but my voice shall be,

Sweet month, for thee;
Thou that to her dost owe thy name,
Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide

Swell and divide,

Whence forth to life and light sh -Ibid.

London Magazine.



FAIR hawthorn flowering,
With green shade bowering

Along this lovely shore;
To thy foot around,
With his long arms wound,

A wild vine has mantled thee o'er.
In armies twain,
Red ants have ta’en

Their fortress beneath thy stock :
And in clefts of thy trunk,
Tiny bees have sunk

A cell where their honey they lock.

In merry spring-tide,
When to woo his bride

The nightingale comes again,
Thy boughs among,
He warbles the song.

That lightens a lover's pain.

'Mid thy topmost leaves,
His nest he weaves

Of moss and the satin fine,
Where his callow brood
Shall chirp at their food,

Secure from each hand but mine.

Gentle hawthorn, thrive,
And for ever alive

Mayst thou blossom as now in thy prime;
By the wind unbroke,
And the thunder-stroke,

Unspoiled by the axe or time!



Why dost thou tremble, peasant, say,
Before the men who empires sway?
Who soon will, shadowy sprites, be led
To swell the number of the dead?
Know'st thou not that all must go
To the gloomy realms below?
And that an imperial ghost
Must no less the Stygian coast
Visit, than the humble shade
Of him who plies the woodman's trade?
Courage, tiller of the ground !
Those who hurl war's thunder round
Will not seek their last abode
In arms, as when the battle glowed.
Naked, like thee, shall they depart;
Nor will the hauberk, sword, or dart,
Avail them more, when they shall flee,
Than thy rough ploughshare shall to thee.
Not more just Rhadamanthus cares
For the mail the warrior wears,
Than for the staff with which the swain
Urges on the glowing train;
By him with equal eye are seen
Thy dusty raiment, rude and mean,

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