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Clem. Thou dost accuse
Thy state too harshly; it may give some room,
Some little room, amidst its radiant cares,
For love and joy to breathe in.
Ion. Not for me ;
My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed
From the sweet fellowship of human kind
The slave rejoices in ; my solemn robes
Shall wrap me in a panoply of ice,
And the attendants who may throng around me
Shall want the flattering which may barely warm
The sceptral thing they circle. Dark and cold
Stretches the path which, when I wear the crown,
I needs must enter; the great gods forbid
That thou shouldst follow in it!
Clem. O unkind !
And shall we never see each other ?
Ion (after a pause.) Yes!
I have asked that dreadful question of the hills,
That look eternal; of the flowing streams,
That lucid flow forever ; of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory : all were dumb; but now,
While I thus gaze upon thy living face,
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty
Can never wholly perish ; we shall meet
Again, Clemanthe !
Clem. Bless thee for that name !
Pray, call me so again; thy words sound strangely,
Yet they breathe kindness, and I 'll drink them in,
Though they destroy me. Shall we meet, indeed ?
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares,
Thy councils, or thy pomps ; to sit at distance,
To weave, with the nice labor which preserves
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads,
Faint record of thy deeds, and sometimes catch
The falling music of a gracious word,
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be
Comfort enough ; – do not deny me this !
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny,
Kill me at once!
Ion. No; thou must live, my fair one ;
There are a thousand joyous things in life,
Which pass unheeded, in a life of joy,
As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties, paid
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Thou dost not mark me.
Clem. O, I do! I do!
Ion. If, for thy brother's and thy father's sake,
Thou art content to live, the healer Time
Will reconcile thee to the lovely things
Of this delightful world ; - and if another,
A happier — no, I cannot bid thee love
Another!- I did think I could have said it,
But 't is in vain !
Clem. Thou art my own, then, still ?
Ion. I am thine own! thus let me clasp thee nearer ; O, joy too thrilling and too short !
D. M. MOIR. 1850, Mr. Moir is a physician, and one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine, under the signature of Delta. He has published one or two volumes of poems, and some prose works. He was born about the beginning of the present century.
CASA WAPPY. Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, who died
after a very brief illness.)
And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy!
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint of earth ;
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell,
When thou didst die ;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathomed agony,
Thou wert a vision of delight,
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A type of heaven;
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less than thine own self a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline,
'T was cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy! :
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That, found thee prostrate in decay;
And e'er a third shone, clay was clay,
Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled ;
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child !
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still,
A form of light!
I feel thy breath upon my cheek —
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak —
Till, oh! my heart is like to break,
Methinks thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth ;
The hair thrown back from thy full brow,
In buoyant health ;
I see thine eyes' deep violet light,
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright,
Thy clasping arms so round and white,
The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thy empty chair,
Thy playthings idly scattered there
But speak to us of our despair,
. Casa Wappy!
Even to the last, thy very word —
To glad, to grieve —
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird,
On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecayed,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And like the rainbow thou didst fade,
We mourn for thee when blind, blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee when morn's first light
Reddens the hills ;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,
Are changed — we saw the world through thee,
And though, perchance, a smile may gleam,
Of casual mirth,
It doth not own, whate'er may seem,
An inward birth;
We miss thy small step on the stair;
We miss thee at our evening prayer;
All day we miss thee, everywhere,
Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring bloom,
Down to the appointed house below,
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and." the busy bee,”
Return — but with them bring not thee,
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. Mr. Macaulay is a son of one of the leading men in the movement which resulted in the abolition of the slave trade in England. He was, for some years, a member of Parliament for Edinburgh, in which position he held a distinguished place as a speaker. He is a man of great erudition, in almost every department of knowledge. His Critical and Historical Essays, written originally for the Edinburgh Review, and since published in three volumes, as well as his History of England, have enjoyed great popularity. He has also a high reputation as a poet, his Lays of Ancient Rome holding a good rank among other poems of the day.
REVIEW OF BUNYAN. THE “ Pilgrim's Progress,” that wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the “ Pilgrim's Progress." That work was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics, and the most bigoted of tories. In the wildest parts of Scotland, the