Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chaut, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but never knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. ALICE RAY.-MRS. SARAH J. HALE The birds their love-notes warble The flowers are sighing forth their sweets The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor Goes dancing on its way But not a thing is so like spring As happy Alice Ray. An only child was Alice, And, like the blest above, The gentle maid had ever breathed An atmosphere of love; Her father's smile like sunshine came, Their love and goodness made her home, Beneath such tender training The joyous child had sprung, Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, And gladness round her flung; And all who met her blessed her, And turned again to pray, That grief and care might ever spare The happy Alice Ray. The gift that made her charming Was not from Venus caught; Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown, But then her eyes were love-lit stars, And when in merry laughter Her sweet, clear voice was heard, It welled from out her happy heart And all who heard were moved to smiles, As at some mirthful lay, And, to the stranger's look, replied, "Tis that dear Alice Ray." And so she came, like sunbeams That bring the April green As type of nature's royalty, They called her "Woodburn's queen!" A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness, Like springtime of the year, Seemed ever on her steps to wait- Her world was ever joyous- As giants of the olden time, That ne'er would come again; The seasons all had charms for her, She welcomed each with joyThe charm that in her spirit lived No changes could destroy. Her love made all things lovely, For in the heart must live The feeling that imparts the charm- SHAKSPEARE-CHARLES SPRAGUE. Then Shakspeare rose!- And lo! a new creation glows!- There clustering round, submissive to his will, Madness, with his frightful scream, Vengeance, leaning on his lance, Hatred, blasting with a glance, Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars, And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet adores. Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell. Dies along the dull gale, And the sleeping monarch's blood is gushing. Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, Kissed by the virgin moon's cold beam, Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, And swan-like there her own dirge breathes. Then broken-hearted sinks to rest, Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast. Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Where his plighted victims lie, Where they met, but met to die : And now, when crimson buds are sleeping, Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot, To youth's devoted tale is listening, Rapture on her dark lash glistening, While fairies leave their cowslip cells, and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along. CORIOLANUS AND VOLUMNIA.-SHAKSPEARE. The Tent of Coriolanus. Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others. Cor. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Auf. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against Cor. This last old man, Whom with a crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love, I have (Though I shew'd sourly to him,) once more offered Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, leading young MARCIUS, VALERIA, and Attendants. My wife comes foremost; then the honor'd mould Let it be virtuous, to be obstinate. What is that curt'sy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn ?—I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others.-My mother bows; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod: and my young boy Great nature cries, Deny not.-Let the Volces And knew no other kin. Vir. My lord and husband! Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. Vir. The sorrow, that delivers us thus chang'd, Makes you think so. Cor. Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Hath virgin'd it e'er since.-You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted: Sink, my knee, i' the earth; [Kneels. Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle, |