LINES,

WRITTEN BENEATH A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE.

BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ.

His was the master-spirit ;-at his spells
The heart gave up its secrets ;—like the mount
Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet's rod,

Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that gray rock
On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards

Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal

On which his genius rose; and, rooted there,
Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high
Above the clouds and changes of the world,
That heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams
Have round its awful brows a glory shed,
Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds
Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions
Beam light on that dim world they leave behind,
And while they spurn, adorn it ;* so his spirit,

.*

His 'dainty spirit' while it soared above

This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew
Treasures of light and loveliness.

And these

[ed

Were 'gentle Shakspeare's' features! This the eye
Whence Earth's least earthly mind looked out and flash-
Amazement on the nations!-This the brow
Where lofty thought majestically brooded,
Seated as on a throne! And these the lips

*In some parts of America, it is said, there are birds which, when on the wing, at night, emit so surprising a brightness, that it is no mean substitute for the light of day. Among the whimsical speculations on Fontelle, is one, that in the Planet Mars, the want of the moon may be compensated by a multiplicity of these luminary aeronauts.

That warbled music stolen from heaven's own choir
When seraph harps rang sweetest! But I tempt
A theme too high, and mount like Icarus,

On wings that melt before the blaze they worship.
Alas! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild!

Else should the eye, whose wondering gaze is fixed
Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains
Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck
From Memnon's ruined statue; the rapt soul
Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes,
'Discourse most eloquent music.'
Literary Gazette.

SONNET.

BY CHARLES LAMB, ESQ.

THEY talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress: Of divine leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend OccupationImprobus labour, which my spirits hath brokeI'd drink of time's rich cup and never surfeit, Fling in more days than went to make the gem That crowned the white-top of Methusalem, Yea, on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity. London Magazine.

ALBUM

THE DAISY IN INDIA.

Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learned and illustrious Baptist Missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up, unexpectedly, in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. The subject was suggested by reading a letter from Dr. Carey to a botanical friend in England.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

THRICE Welcome! little English Flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,

Never to me such beauty spread!
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.

Thrice welcome little English Flower!
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unbashed but modest eyes

Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant-offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year:
Thou, only Thou, art little here,

Like worth unfriended or unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone!

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,

While happy in my father's bower,

Thou shalt the blithe memorial be!
The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee
Are mine in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
O for the April sun and shower,

The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk!-that here might shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root!

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To me the pledge of Hope unseen!
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how-fresh and green,

I saw thee waking from the dust,—
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

London Magazine.

SILENT LOVE.

OH, I could whisper thee a tale
That surely would thy pity move;

But what would idle words avail
Unless the heart might speak its love!

To tell that tale my pen were weak;-
My tongue its office too denies ;
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my languid eyes!

W.

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross, was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star, as a friend from whom we have been long separated. Among the Portuguese and Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling: a religious sentiment attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the new world. The two great stars, which mark the summit and the foot of the cross, having nearly the same right ascension, it follows hence, that the constellation is almost perpendicular, at the moment when it passes the meridian. This circumstance is known to every nation that lives beyond the tropics, or in the southern hemisphere. It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the cross of the south is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly nearly four minutes a day, and no other group of stars exhibits, to the naked eye, an observation of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim in the savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, midnight is past, the cross begins to bend." DE HUMBOLDT'S TRAVELS.

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannas in boundless magnificence spread;
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The Fern-tree waves o'er me; the fire-fly's red light,
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read, in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn,
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the Olive and Vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main,
My fathers unfolded the streamer of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.