RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

I.

TO LORD BYRON.

BYRON! 't is thine alone, on eagles' pinions,
In solitary strength and grandeur soaring,
To dazzle and delight all eyes; outpouring
The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions;
Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions,

Nature, man, time, the universe exploring;

And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions, Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing:

O, how I love and envy thee thy glory,

To every age and clime alike belonging; Linked by all tongues with every nation's glory. Thou TACITUS of song! whose echoes, thronging O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary

And forests with the name my verse is wronging.

II.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

WINGED mimic of the woods! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, YORICK of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;

To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule!

For such thou art by day, but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy JACQUES complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again.

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

I.

THERE is a magic in the moon's mild ray,
What time she softly climbs the evening sky,
And sitteth with the silent stars on high, –
That charms the pang of earth-born grief away.
I raise my eye to the blue depths above,

And worship Him whose power, pervading space,
Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace,
Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love.
Oft, when the silent moon was sailing high,

I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has marked my brow, Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye.

O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide,

Shine on my eve of life, — shine soft, and long abide.

II.

'T is Autumn, and my steps have led me far
To a wild hill, that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star

Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away.
The west is crimson with retiring day;

And the north gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by,
And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright,
Bright, but of fading brightness! soon is past

That dreamlike glory of the painted wood :

And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast,

The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.

GEORGE HENRY CALVERT.

I.

ON THE FIFTY-FIFTH SONNET OF SHAKESPEARE.

THE Soul leaps up to hear this mighty sound,
Of Shakespeare triumphing. With glistening eye,
Forward he sent his spirit, to espy

Time's gratitude, and catch the far rebound

Of fame from worlds unpeopled yet; and, crowned With brightening light through all futurity,

His image to behold up-reaching high,

'Mongst the world's benefactors most renowned. Like to the ecstasy, by man unnamed,

The spheral music doth to gods impart,

Was the deep joy that thou hast here proclaimed
Thy song's eternal echo gave thy heart.

Ó, the world thanks thee that thou 'st let us see,

Thou knew'st how great thou wast, how prized to be!