INVOCATION.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night!
Where is the spirit gone,

That past the reach of human sight
As a swift breeze hath flown?
And the stars answered me- " We roll
In light and power on high;
But, of the never dying-soul,
As that which cannot die.

Oh! many toned and chainless wind!
Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea ?-
And the wind murmur'd in reply,
"The blue deep I have cross'd
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost."
Ye clouds that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! have ye a home for those
Whose earthly race is run?

The bright clouds answer'd─"We depart,
We vanish from the sky;

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die."

Speak then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!

Answer me, through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?

And the voice answer'd-"Be thou still,
Enough to know is given;

Clouds, winds and stars their part fulfil,
Thine is to trust to Heaven."

TO THE BAT.

In the Gentleman's Magazine for 1799.
LITTLE bat, whose airy flight
Fills the evening with delight,
Flit, and flirt, and frisk along,
Subject of my youthful song.

When in dappled twilight grey
Through the sombre grove I stray,
Whilst fair Philomela's throat
Warbles forth its sacred note,
Thwart my dusky footsteps fly,
Adding dance to minstrelsy.
Now along the glittering stream,
Now beneath pale Cynthia's beam,
Now amid the vista's shade
Thou thy giddy circles lead;
Joyous elf, thy fairy play

Glads the gloom of parting day.

THE LUTE.

By L. E. L. (Miss LANDON.)
OH! sing again that mournful song,
That song of other times!
The music bears my soul along
To other dearer times.

I love its low and broken tone;
The music seems to me

Like the wild wind when singing lone
Over a twilight sea.

It

may not sound so sweet to you,
To you it cannot bring

The valley where your childhood grew,
The memories of your spring.

My father's house, my infancy,
Rise present to my mind,
As if I had not cross'd the sea,
Or left my youth behind.

I heard it at the evening's close,
Upon my native shore,

It was a favourite song with those
Whom I shall see no more.

How many worldly thoughts and cares
Have melted at the strain!

'Tis fraught with early hopes and prayers, Oh! sing that song again!

Brilliants.

CEREMONY.

Ceremony has made many fools.

It is as easy way unto a duchess

As to a hatted dame, if her love answer :
But that by timorous honours, pale respects,
Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways
Hard of themselves.

TOURNEUR.

ACTING.

'Tis better in a play

Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed.
How oft, with danger of the field beset,
Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be
Himself; or, over cruel altars weeping,
Wish, that with putting off a vizard he
Might his true inward sorrow lay aside!
The shows of things are better than themselves,
How doth it stir this airy part of us

To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights

And the strange blows that feigned courage gives.
When I Achilles hear upon the Stage
Speak honour and the greatness of his soul,
Methinks I too could on a Phrygian spear
Run boldly, and make tales for after times:
But when we come to act it in the deed,
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears
Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow:
And boasting valour loseth his red cheek.
Tragedy of Nero.

THE PRIMROSE.

Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom, Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth To feed, with kindliest dews, its favourite flower, That blooms in mossy banks and darksome glens, Lighting the greensward with its sunny smile.

SHELLEY.

A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE.

Strange that flowers of earth

Are visited by every air that stirs,

And drink in sweetness only, while the child
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven,
May take a blemish from the breath of love,
And bear the blight for ever.

I have wept

With gladness at the gift of this fair child!
My life is bound up in her. But, O God!
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times
Bears its sweet burthen: and if thou hast given
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower,
To bring it unpolluted unto thee,

Take thou its love I pray thee! Give it light—
Though, following the sun, it turns from me!—
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light
Shining about her, draw me to my child!

And link us close, O God, when near to heaven!
N. P. WILLIS.

ADVERSITY.

How ruthless men are to adversity!

My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone;

And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.

СООКЕ.

PARADISE.

Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere,
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream;
No storm deforms the beaming brow of heaven,
Nor scatters in the freshness of its pride
The foliage of the ever-verdant trees;
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair,
And autumn proudly bears her matron grace,
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring,
Whose virgin bloom, beneath the ruddy fruit,
Reflects its tint and flushes into love.

SHELLEY.

HONOUR.

Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,
Forms our true honour.

COLERIDGE.

PLEASURES.

I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits,
Musicians, that with touching of a string
May draw the pliant king which way I please.
Music and poetry are his delight;

Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night,
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
Like Sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad;
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antic hay.
Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape,
With hair that gilds the water as it glides,
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,
And in his sportful hands an olive tree
To hide those parts which men delight to see,
Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,
One like Acteon, peeping thro' the grove,
Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd,
And running in the likeness of an hart,

By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die;
Such things as these best please his majesty.

MARLOWE.

GREAT MEN'S LOOKS.

Did not the duke look up? methought he saw us.—
-That's every one's conceit that sees a duke,
If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them :
When he perhaps, good careful gentleman,
Never minds any, but the look he casts
Is at his own intentions, and his object
Only the public good.

MIDDLETON.