THE NAIADS.

FROM AKENSIDE'S HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

You Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old
Aurora to divine Astræus bore,

Owns ; and your aid beseecheth. When the night
Of Hyperion, from his noon-tide throne,
Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you
They ask Favonius, and the mild south-west
From you relief implore. Your sallying streams
Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart.
You, too, O Nymphs! and your unenvious aid
The rural powers confess; and still prepare
For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands,
Oft as the Delian king with Lyrius holds
The central heavens, the father of the grove
Commands his Dryads over your abodes

To spread their deepest umbrage.

Well the god

Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied
Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.

The Muses, sacred by the gifts divine,

In early days did on my wondering senses

Their secrets oft reveal: oft my raised ear
In slumber felt their music: oft at noon
Or hour of sunset, by some lonely stream,

In field or shady grove, they taught me words

Of power from death and envy to preserve

The good man's name. Whence yet with grateful

mind

And offerings unprofaned by ruder eye,

My vows I send, my homage to the seats

Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell:
Where you their chaste companions they admit
Through all the hallowed scene: where oft intent
And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge,
They mark the cadence of your confluent urns,
How tuneful! yielding gratefullest repose
To their concerted measure.

With you,

O Naiads! far from the unhallowed rout

Must dwell the man who e'er to praised themes
Invokes the Immortal muse. The Immortal muse

To your calm habitations, to the Cave

Corycian or the Delphic Mount, will guide

His footsteps; and with your unsullied streams

His parched lips will bathe. Hail! honoured Nymphs,

Thrice hail! For you the Cyrenaic shell
Behold I touch revering. To my songs

Be present ye with favourable feet,

And all profaner audience far remove.

THE SLEEPER'S SHRIFT.

BY H. F. CHORLEY.

Ir was one of the darkest afternoons of winter, immediately after New Year's day, that the young heiress of Wanderstein caused an unusually good fire to be kindled in her dressing-room, and summoned her old attendant, half nurse, half confidante, to assist her at her toilet; giving herself up to its cares with that comfortable deliberation, which is at once a token of abundant leisure, and the exquisite effects intended to be produced therein.

"Nay, Richilda," said the fair Lady Jane, looking in the glass," undo this stiff structure of curls; thou hast made my head look like field-marshal's peruke.

I will have it, let me see,-no, not braided, how was it on my birth-day?"

"The day on which Count Seltzermann was here last?"

"Have done, Richilda; or rather do not begin." "Well, then," returned the confidante, peevishly, "I do not remember; how should I, if I am not allowed to talk about it?"