And waterfall, and streams that down the hills What are his joys to mine? The groves are green, Music and sylvan beauty crown his year;— Bird, bee, and butterfly, are on the wing, Songs shake the woods, and streams are murmuring; Few are the gladsome hours that come to cheer BY J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they 've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell.". 'T was thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincereThat changeful inind unchanging gems are not befitting wellThus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. "He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way; unloosed; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, "He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and hope he will believe — THE TRUMPET. BY MRS. HEMANS. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacon-pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire! A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast, A king to war went past! The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth! The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye;— They come not back, though all be won, The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side; E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride! And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread! How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead? The Amulet. THE MILL. A MORAVIAN TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. BY LORD FRANCIS LEVESON GOWER. PART I. How idly by yon ruined Mill, A silent stream, a voiceless rill, The scanty currents steal; And yet those broad embankments show Conducted by the hand of man, Blue, dark, and deep, of old they ran : Back to their useless native bed? And why, too, moulders to decay In pride to bear their own away, Is it for bard or painter's eyes That here romantic nature tries To spurn at art's restraint? Inviting me to moralize, Yes; paint it in the sun's broad beam, Below the pool is still. No stream can wash, no depth can hide, That laves the haunted Mill. Time was when yonder wheel went round, Could shew the rival fair who vied With Ebba's charms. How oft he smiled Complacent on that only child; Bade some assenting neighbour trace And how the heiress of the charms, Which once had blessed his youthful arms, They say that spirits haunt the gloom May haunt it now; but they had fled They were a goodly sight-the sire A third in that domestic round, On Ebba's beauty gazed. |