"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 gorgeous shows;
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!

-JEAN REBOUL.

THE STAR OF PEACE.

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,

Athenæum.

April, that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,
All round thee strew,

When, as thou goest, the grassy floor
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.

-Ibid.

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

His fruits of gold,

His fertilising dews, that swell

wealth unfold,

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 she came.

London Magazine.

-RONSARD.

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!

TO A POOR MAN.

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,

Anon.