HARVEST-HOME.

Murmuring and making liquid brawl,
Forsooth they cannot, each and all,
Be first upon the scene!

Dreamer, wake up!—and with me hie
Thither!—Thine Elfin Genius, I,
Soul of thy fitful mirth!

No sprite who 'mid the starry spheres
Spends all his angel time in tears
Over unhappy Earth.

Half earth is dark, but half is bright;
If darkness thee, and the demons delight,
Keep to thy bower still;

There, in sad triumph, cypress-bound,
Like statue in his own fountain drowned,
Sit darkling if thou will.

Up! up! seclusion is selfish sin,

When such gay rites and revels begin?
See!-bright as bubble on foam,
Swift as with velvet breast the swallow
Slides through the air, I'm gone!-O follow,
Follow to Harvest-home!

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A spurn like a beetle's, and whirr by my cheek, I felt from a foot and a pinion sleek;

Methought o'er the stubble two gossamer plumes

Fluttered light on the festive ground,

Yet brushing each flower for wild perfumes, And washing betimes in the dew-filled blooms Their feathery points; till at length I found, On reaching the green, whither both were bound. Instead of an elfin genius, I,

With kindling soul and ecstatic cry,

Had but followed a broad-winged butterfly!
That Will-o'-the-wisp of the sunbright day,
Which leads little fools, led me, astray;
Good genius still, were it gnat or gnome,
Which led me to join in a Harvest-home!

G. DARLEY.

MIND.

MIND creates and re-creates,
Crowded realms depopulates,

Bids cities, long destroyed, resume

Their pomp of pride and all life's stir, Then leaves them once more to their doomEngulphed in Time's vast sepulchre.

Lo! appear the guarded towers,

Hanging gardens, myrtle bowers,

The crowded streets and massive walls,
The fountains and the waterfalls,
The palaces and columns tall,

The temples overtopping all,

And idols famed that o'er them shone-
Of boasted, erst-proud Babylon.

Lo! crowds on crowds, commingling, press
From Tadmor in the wilderness;
And lo, around besieging foes,

Led by their warlike queen they close;
Steeds paw the ground or snort in air,
Foes fall in numbers, here and there;
Shouts and shouts with varied cries
Bristle the spears, swords dazzling flash-
Hark how the meeting bucklers clash!
of victory and pain, arise.

See fresh troops come rushing on;
They meet, they close-lo! all are gone.
Mind penetrates the earth and seas,
And revels 'midst the Pleiades.

It dances on the lightning flashes,

From cloud to cloud with thunder dashes;
It glows in the tempests, the whirlwind rides
When they rend the earth and torture the tides,
Or drown 'neath seas of moving sands
The caravans of sun-parched lands.
Mind strews a barren path with flowers,

And decks bleak heights with vine-clad bowers;
Each sunbeam that has once delighted,
That once a kindred glow excited,
It gathers again, till round is thrown
A lustrous daylight of its own!—

J. H. KEANE.

AN EPIGRAM.

FROM THE GERMAN.

In many things the poet should be learned;
Life seems too short to work out his vocation.
The world and all its histories he should know,
And dwell with ancient as with modern men.
Strange lands and languages let him explore,
And be at home in the north and under palm-
trees.

Above all, he must know the heart, go through
The scale of all its feelings, joys and griefs.
He must interpret statues too, and pictures;
What the woods whisper he must tell in words.
Art-soul-world-nature-he must rule them

all

Yet none but fools would make of him a pedant.

ANON.

THE CYPRESS TREE.

THE Cypress tree is the tree for me,
For in the churchyard's round,

O'er the cold death-beds, they lift their heads,
The masters of all the ground:

Then on my grave, where'er it be,
I wish to have a Cypress tree.

THE CYPRESS TREE.

The rose may flaunt, like a gay gallant,

In the pride of summer-bloom,

But the tree loved best, for my place of rest,

Is that comrade of the tomb.

Then o'er my grave, where'er it be,
Forget not thou a Cypress tree!

The violet pale may scent the gale,
Laden with morning-dew,

But flower or plant I ne'er shall want,
With, Cypress! a friend in you.
Then o'er my grave, where'er it be,
I charge thee set a Cypress tree!

It matters not, in that quiet spot,
If briar or nightshade grow,

Or over my bones, green turf or stones,
Or the sunshine or the snow,
Should my lone dust, where'er it be,
Be shadowed by a Cypress tree.

Then o'er my grave let the Cypress wave,

And darkly-greenly rise,

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For it's cone, like the spire of the funeral pyre,

Points upward unto the skies,

And in that tree a pledge I see,

My spirit shall immortal be.

CAROLINE DE CRESPIGNY.