'Tis thus in solitude: but sweeter far,
By those we love, in that all-softening hour, To watch with mutual eyes each coming star,
And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bower Of foliage, wreath'd and trembling, as the car
Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower And shrub that droops above us, on the sense Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense.*
* We cannot omit in this place the beautiful lines on a fine moonlight evening from Homer's Iliad, Book viii; a passage which is justly esteemed both for pleasing imagery, and variety of numbers:
"As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!
O'er Heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:-
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light."
THOUGHTS ON THE SEA-SHORE.
In every object here I see
Something, O LORD, that leads to THEE;
Firm as the rocks THY promise stands,
THY mercies countless as the sands,
THY love a Sea immensely wide,
THY grace an overflowing tide.
In every object here I see
Something, my heart, that points at thee;
Hard as the rocks that bound the strand,
Unfruitful as the barren sand,
Deep and deceitful as the Ocean,
And like the tides in constant motion.
LITTLE flower with starry brow,
Slumbering in thy bed of snow;
Or, with lightly tinged ray,
and storms away,
Peeping from thy couch of green
With modest head and simple mien ; How I love to see thee lie,
In thy low serenity,
Basking in the gladsome beam ;
Or, beside some murmuring stream
Gently bowing from thy nest,
Greet the water's silver breast.
Or mid fissure of the rock,
Hidden from the tempest's shock,
Vie with snowy lily's bell-
Queen and fairy of the dell.
Thee nor wind nor storm can tear
From thy lonely mountain lair;
Nor the sleety, sweeping rain,
Root thee from thy native plain.
Winter's cold, nor Summer's heat,
Blights thee in thy snug retreat;
Chill'd by snow or scorch'd by flame,
Thou for ever art the same.
Type of truth, and emblem fair
Of virtue struggling through despair,
Close may sorrows hem it round,
Troubles bend it to the ground,
Yet the soul within is calm,
Dreads no anguish, fears no harm ;
Conscious that the HAND which tries
All its latent energies,
Can, with more than equal power,
Bear it through temptation's hour,
Still the conflict, soothe its sighs,
And plant it 'neath congenial skies.
REV. W. FLETCHER.
WILL you not buy my Flowers?
I have been on the primrose hill,
I have been where the lily builds silver bowers
On the edge of the singing rill,
I follow'd the bee, where the sallow grows
By the amaranth dim and pale;
And I track'd the butterfly's wing to the rose,
In her palace of the vale.
Choose what you love the best,
All cull'd in the cool, fresh morn;
For I waken'd the lark from the daisy's breast
In the depths of the waving corn.
A rainbow might have dyed this wreath,—
It has every scent and hue
That is born of the west-wind's wooing breath,
Or wak'd by the early dew!
Fragrant, and sweet, and fair
Yet they neither toil, nor spin,-
But they have not known the touch of care,
Nor the taint of mortal sin:
Beside their beauty pure and lone,
The glow of earthly fame,
Or the pomp and pride of Solomon,
Is a vain and empty name.
Is not my calling sweet,
To dwell amid beautiful things?
Flowers giving perfume at my feet,
And birds-like flowers with wings?
Oh! happy they who shun the strife
Of pride, or passion's hours:
And glide along the calms of life
Like me, dispensing flowers!
FROM that deep shelter'd solitude,
Where in some quarry wild and rude
Your feather'd mother rear'd her brood,
Why, pilgrim, did you brave
The upland winds so bleak and keen,
To seek these hills-whose slopes between
Wide stretch'd in grey expanse is seen
The ocean's toiling wave?
Did Instinct bid you linger here,
That broad and restless ocean near,
And wait, till with the waning year,
These northern gales arise?
Which, from the tall cliff's rugged side,
Shall give your soft light plumes to glide
Across the channel's refluent tide
To seek more favouring skies?
Alas! and has not instinct said,
That luxury's toils for you are laid,
And that by groundless fears betrayed,
You ne'er perhaps may know
Those regions where the embowering vine
Loves round the luscious fig to twine,
And mild the suns of Winter shine,
And flowers perennial blow?
To take you, shepherd-boys prepare
The hollow turf, the wiry snare,
Of those weak terrors well aware,
That bid you vainly dread
The shadows floating o'er the downs,
Or murmuring gale, that round the stones
Of some old beacon, as it moans,
Scarce moves the thistle's head.
And if a cloud obscure the sun,
With faint and fluttering heart you run,
And to the pitfall you should shun,
Resort in trembling haste;
While on that dewy cloud so high,
The lark, sweet minstrel of the sky,
Sings in the morning's beamy eye,
And bathes his spotted breast.
Ah! simple bird, resembling you
Are those, that with distorted view,
Through life some selfish end pursue
With low inglorious aim;
They sink in blank oblivious night,
While minds superior dare the light,
And high on honour's glorious height
Aspire to endless fame.
The Wheatear, Motacilla Enanthe, is migratory, and appears with us about the end of March, and leaves in September. On the Downs of Sussex these birds are murdered in immense numbers; being caught by the shepherds in snares of horse-hair, fixed on a stick, and placed under two turfs set on edge. Nearly two thousand dozens, it is said, are thus annually taken in one district only. It is esteemed a delicate morsel by the epicure, and has received the name of the English Ortolan.
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