AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. To this sweet place for quiet. 1 come Every tree, And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, And thymy mound that flings unto the winds BARRY CORNWALL. THERE were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound As of soft showers on water;-dark and deep Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still They seem'd but pictur'd glooms: a hidden rill Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, Came pouring thro' the woven beech-boughs down, And steep'd the magic page wherein I read Of royal chivalry and old renown, A tale of Palestine.*-Meanwhile the bee Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell Where sat the lone wood-pigeon: But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell On Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong my chain'd soul:-'twas not the leaves I heard A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirr❜d, *The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders. Thro' its proud, floating folds :-'twas not the brook, Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen ;— A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Sent thro' an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue The bright masque faded. Unto life's worn track, A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. His very heart athirst To gaze at nature in her green array, Far distant, such as he would die to find : He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. CowPER. THE hollow dash of waves!—the ceaseless roar !— Silence, ye billows!-vex my soul no more. There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam; Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear! And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, Into deeper shades from the sultry day, And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe! Be still thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry! Know ye my home, with the lulling sound Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round? -Under the purple of southern skies? With the streamy gold of the sun that shines In thro' the cloud of its clustering vines, And the summer-breath of the myrtle-flowers; Borne from the mountains in dewy hours, |