May's in all the Italian books: Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves DEATH. Death is a road our dearest friends have gone: JENNY KISSED ME. Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in: Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; : Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me! James Nelson Barker. AMERICAN. Barker (1784-1858), better known as a dramatic writer than by his other productions, was a native of Philadelphia, and a son of General John Barker, an officer of the Revolution, and at one time mayor and sheriff of the city. James was a captain in the artillery during the war of 1812 with Great Britain, was for one year mayor of Philadelphia, and afterward collector of the port. In 1807 he produced a comedy, entitled "Tears and Smiles;" in 1817, "How to Try a Lover," never performed; and in 1823, a tragedy, "Superstition," one of the principal parts in which is Goff, the regicide. Bar ker was also the author of some sprightly poems, one of which we subjoin. LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. She was, indeed, a pretty little creature; -The wolf, indeed! -Was 't not a wolf, then? I have read the story A hundred times, and heard it told; nay, told it Myself to my younger sisters, when we've shrunk Together in the sheets, from very terror, And, with protecting arms, each round the other, E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember I saw the story acted on the stage Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely: And so it was a robber, not a wolf, That met poor little Riding-hood i' the wood? -Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale Contains a hidden moral. -Hidden? Nay, I'm not so young but I can spell it out, -Thus, then, dear my daughter: To your young limbs and spirit. -No, believe me: To keep the insects from disturbing you Was sweet employment, or to fan your cheek When the breeze lulled. -You're a dear child! -And then To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank, So gently sloping to the rivulet, All purple with my own dear violet, And sprinkled over with spring flowers of each tint! There was that pale and humble little blossom, Looking so like its namesake, Innocence; The fairy-formed, flesh-hued anemone, With its fair sisters, called by country people Fair maids o' the spring; the lowly cinque-foil, too, And her compauion of the season, dressed not. -Oh, many more, whose names I have not learned! And then to see the light-blue butterfly Roaming about, like an enchanted thing, From flower to flower, and the bright honey-bee And there, too, was the fountain, overhung With bush and tree, draped by the graceful vine Where the white blossoms of the dog-wood met The crimson redbud, and the sweet birds sang Their madrigals; while the fresh springing waters, Just stirring the green fern that bathed within them, Leaped joyful o'er their fairy mound of rock, And fell in music, then passed prattling on Between the flowery banks that bent to kiss them. -I dreamed not of these sights or sounds. -Then just Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip, Was crowned, with rosebay. Half-way down there stood, Sylph-like, the light, fantastic Columbine, The book of nature too?-for it is that -Poor Red Riding-hood! We had forgotten her: yet mark, dear madam, How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure. And now the hidden moral. -Thus it is: Mere children read such stories literally, But the more elderly and wise deduce A moral from the fiction. In a word, The wolf that you must guard against is-LOVE. -I thought love was an infant-"toujours enfant." --The world and love were young together, child, And innocent- Alas! time changes all things. -True, I remember, love is now a man, And, the song says, a very saucy one;" But how a wolf? -Tut! enough, enough! As ready to leap down unto her lover, Harlequin Bartsia, in his painted vest Of green and crimson. Your madcap fancy runs too riot, girl. We must shut up your books of botany, And give you graver studies. -Say what, my love, Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her up: What is the moral here? Have all our grandmas Been first devoured by love? -Let us go in : -Will you shut The air grows cool. You are a forward chit. John Wilson. Edu Professor John Wilson (1785-1854), son of an opulent manufacturer, was a native of Paisley, Scotland. cated at Oxford, he bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on Lake Windermere, married, built a house, kept a yacht, wrote poetry, cultivated the society of Wordsworth, and enjoyed himself generally. Reverses came, however, and he was compelled to work in earnest. He was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, took the editorship of Blackwood's Magazine, and there made for himself quite a reputation, in his day, under the nom de plume of Christopher North. Scott speaks of him, in one of his letters, as "an eccentric genius." The poetical works of Wilson consist of "The Isle of Palms" (1812), "The City of the Plague" (1816), and several smaller pieces. In reference to his prose writings, Hallam characterized him as "a living writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters." In 1851 Wilson was granted a pension of £300 per annum. An interesting memoir of him by his daughter, Mrs. Gordon, appeared in 1862. ADDRESS TO A WILD-DEER. Magnificent creature! so stately and bright! Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale!- morn, Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor, As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore; Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest; And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill! In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still!Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, One moment-thou bright apparition-delay! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, motion, Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean! Then proudly he turned ere he sank to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, While his horus in a crescent of radiance shone, Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. The ship of the desert hath passed on the wind, What lonely magnificence stretches around! All hushed and serene as a region of dreams, HYMN. FROM "LORD RONALD'S CHILD." FIRST VOICE. Oh beautiful the streams That through our valleys run, Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer's cloudless sun. The sweetest of them all From its fairy banks is gone! And the music of the water-fall Hath left the silent stone! Up among the mountains In soft and mossy cell, By the silent springs and fountains The happy wild-flowers dwell. The queen-rose of the wilderness Hath withered in the wind, And the shepherds see no loveliness In the blossoms left behind. Birds cheer our lonely groves With many a beauteous wing— When happy in their harmless loves, How tenderly they sing! O'er all the rest was heard One wild and mournful strain, But hushed is the voice of that hymning bird, She ne'er must sing again! Bright through the yew-trees' gloom, I saw a sleeping dove! On the silence of her silvery plume, The sunlight lay in love. The grove seemed all her own Round the beauty of that breast-But the startled dove afar is flown! Forsaken is her nest! In yonder forest wide A flock of wild-deer lies, Beauty breathes o'er each tender side And shades their peaceful eyes! The hunter in the night Hath singled out the doe, In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow! A thousand stars shine forth, With pure and dewy ray Till by night the mountains of our north Seem gladdening in the day. Oh empty all the heaven! Though a thousand lights be there For clouds o'er the evening-star are driven, And shorn her golden hair! SECOND VOICE. -What though the stream be dead, Its banks all still and dry! It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed In the air-groves of the sky. What though our prayers from death What though our bird of light Lie mute with plumage dim! In heaven I see her glancing bright— I hear her angel hymu. What though the dark tree smile No more with our dove's calm sleep! She folds her wing on a sunny isle In heaven's untroubled deep. True that our beauteous doe Hath left her still retreatBut purer now in heavenly snow She lies at Jesus' feet. Oh star! untimely set! Why should we weep for thee! Thy bright and dewy coronet Is rising o'er the sea! THE EVENING CLOUD. A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun; To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; THE SHIPWRECK. FROM "THE ISLE OF PALMS." It is the midnight hour :-the beauteous sea, Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, The mighty moon, she sits above, A zone of dim and tender light, And, lo! upon the murmuring waves A glorious shape appearing! A broad-winged vessel, through the shower Of glimmering lustre steering! As if the beauteous ship enjoyed The beauty of the sea, She lifteth up her stately head, A lovely path before her lies, A lovely path behind; She sails amid the loveliness Like a thing with heart and mind. Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair, A glorious phantom of the deep, Risen up to meet the moon. The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, And the quiet voice of the rocking sea, To cheer the gliding vision, sings. Oh, ne'er did sky and water blend Or bathe in brighter quietude But, list! a low and moaning sound As if it called the ship along. Soon as his light has warmed the seas, No fears hath she! her giant form 'Mid the deep darkness white as snow! Five hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried o'er the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies, And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow-hues And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow. To the coral rocks are hurrying down, Oh, many a dream was in the ship An hour before her death; And sights of home with sighs disturbed And the swallow's song in the eaves. He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And madness and despair. Now is the ocean's bosom bare, But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky. While a low and melancholy moan |