The yellow harvest loads the scarce tilled plain, Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading

soon,

E'en fallen columns, and decaying towers.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Home of the beautiful, but not the brave!
Where noble form, bold outline, princely air,
Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave:
Where like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave,
Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace,
Nor spoil those charms which partial nature gave,
By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair
Thou nurse of every art, save one alone,
The art of self-defiance! Thy fostering care
Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone,
And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone,
Infused in music, now constrains the soul
With tears the power of melody to own,

And now with passionate throbs that spurn control.

Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong,
Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean!
Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong,
No memory of the brave, of what has been?

Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence. Shades of departed heroes, rise again!

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence

Oh, Italy! my country, fare thee well!

For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me

dwell,

The fathers of my mind! whose fame imprest, E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, Ere yet thou didst receive me as a guest,

Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams?

Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost
Too early lost, alas! when once so dear;
I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast,
And urge the feet forbid to linger here.
But must I rove by Arno's current clear,

And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood,
And wander on the mount, now waste and drear,
Where Cæsar's palace in its glory stood;

And see again Parthenope's loved bay,

And Pæstum's shrines, and Baia's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice--never more?

Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar—

It washes not our feet, that envious sea,

But waits, with outstretched arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee.

Fare, fare thee well once more.

I love thee not

As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherished mistress of my youth; forgot

Thou never canst be while I have a heart. Launched on those waters, wild with storm and wind,

I know not, ask not, what may be my lot;

For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought."

BURNS.

BY F. G. HALLECK.

To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayrshire, in the Autumn of 1822.

WILD rose of Alloway! my thanks

Thou mindst me of that autumn noon,
When first we met upon 'the banks
And braes o' Bonny Doon.'

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've crossed the winter sea, and thou
Art withered, flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine,—

The doom of all things wrought of clay,-And withered my life's leaf like thine, Wild rose of Alloway?

Not so his memory, for whose sake
My bosom bore thee far and long,
His-who a humbler flower could make
Immortal as his song.

The memory of Burns-a name

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup A nation's glory, and her shame,

In silent sadness up.

A nation's glory-be the rest

Forgot-she's canonized his mind,

And it is joy to speak the best
We may of human kind.

I've stood beside the cottage bed

Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument-that tells to Heaven

The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that Bard-peasant given!

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot,
Boy-Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour,-
And know, however low his lot,
A Poet's pride and power

The pride that lifted Burns from earth,
The power that gave a child of song
Ascendency o'er rank and birth,
The rich, the brave, the strong.

And if despondency weigh down
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then,
Despair-thy name is written on
The roll of common men.

There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,

And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires.

Yet read the names that know not death,-
Few nobler ones than Burns are there,
And few have won a greener wreath

Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart,

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;