How tears must fall; how guilt must break
The bosom's rest; how hearts must ache.
Perchance thy gentle mother speaks

Of drooping forms and fading cheeks;
Of heedless youth that takes no thought;

Of knowledge by experience bought:
What boots it?-thou art young and fair,

And joy is thy sufficient care!

Thou tend'st thy flowers, and read'st thy books;

And youth in thee more lovely looks,

Because no trace of tears and sighs,

Of watchings or anxieties,

Has dimmed thine eyes, or lined thy brow;

Thou ever art as thou art now;

And like the form of household mirth

Art thou upon thy father's hearth;

Thy little brothers laugh to see
Thy pleasant eye so full of glee ;
Thy elder sisters hear thy feet
Trip lightly in, like music sweet.

Oh happy maiden, to impart
Joy as a presence where thou art!
What is it gives thee such a grace?
The beauty of a youthful face-
The brightness of a tearless eye
A light step passing softly by?
No, 'tis not these have given alone
The powerful charm that is thine own:

A loving heart intent to please;
A guileless wit; a mind at ease;

A spirit which has ta'en its hue

From healthful tastes and pleasures true;
A feeling of the great and pure;

A trust sublime; a faith secure ;
Have made thee, maiden, as thou art,
Lovely of form, and glad of heart!

Go, take thy book: the red-rose flower
Hangs heavy in thy favourite bower;
And on the dark and feathery yew
Lie beaded drops of glistening dew;

And birds are singing loud and wide,
As if the morn they glorified.

Yet, close thy book,—the hour is bright,—

And give thy spirit to delight,

And think thy thoughts;-the scene, the hour,

Of memories have a sinless dower;

The memories of all gentle things

Whence no remorse, no sorrow springs :
The mossy brook; the forest shade

Where thou and thine have gambols played;

Where first each sylvan form and tone
Were to thy childish sense made known ;
Some favourite walk, some ancient tree,

Which those thou lov'st call after thee;
And every place remembered well
In thy young life's pure chronicle;

How here, in this delightful nook,

Thou earliest read some pleasant book;

Here found some flower, which none had found
Save thee, in all the country round;

And here, perchance, first learned to grieve
In the sweet woe of taking leave;

Or heard those words which thence are part,

As 'twere life's essence in thy heart.
Sweet maiden, all these things may be,
For once I, too, was young like thee;
And in that wakeful, happy time
Walked out, like thee, in morning's prime ;
And read my book beneath a tree,
And thought my thoughts in poetry.

But time passed on: I am not now
What I was then-ev'n such as thou:
O'er what was bright a shade has passed;
Youth's visions are too fair to last!

And 'twill be thus with thee ere long,

Thought will grow sad, and care be strong,
And duties of a graver kind

Require from thee a stedfast mind.

And then, from those gone years of youth,
Thy mother's words of serious truth,
Forgotten else, will come to thee

From the clear depths of memory,

And guide thee through the shoals of life,
The thoughtful mother, and the wife!

Now fare-thee-well, my sober strain
No longer shall thy steps detain ;
The sun is up-the dews are gone-
Open thy books, young, joyful one;
And in thy bower, or 'neath thy tree,
Read out thy page of poetry!

SONNET.

SUMMER LOUNGING.

BY JOHN CLARE.

M. H.

I LOVE to wander at my idle will,

In summer's joyous prime, about the fields,
And kneel when thirsty at the little rill,

To sip the draught its pebbly channel yields;
And, where the maple bush its fountain shields,
To lie and dream a quiet hour away;
And crop the pea-pod from the crowded land;
Or mid the upland's woody walks to stray,
Where oaks for aye o'er their old shadows stand;
'Neath whose dark foliage with a welcome hand
I pluck the luscious strawberry, ripe and red
As beauty's lips :- and in my fancy's dreams,
As 'mid the velvet moss I musing tread,
Feel life as lovely as her picture seems.

CARL BLÜVEN,

AND

THE STRANGE MARINER.

A Norwegian Tale.

On that wild part of the coast of Norway that stretches between Bergen and Stavanger, there once lived a fisherman called Carl Blüven. Carl was one of the poorest of all the fishermen who dwelt on that shore. He had scarcely the means of buying materials wherewith to mend his net, which was scarcely in a condition to hold the fish in it; still less was he in a condition to make himself master of a new boat, which he stood greatly in need of; for it was so battered and that while other fishermen adventured out into the

worn,

open sea, Carl was obliged to content himself with picking up what he could among the rocks and creeks that lay along the coast.

Notwithstanding his poverty, Carl was on the eve of marriage. His bride was the daughter of a woodcutter in the neighbouring forest, who contrived, partly with his hatchet, and partly with his gun, to eke out his livelihood; so that the match was pretty equal on