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Perhaps thou once wert cushion'd in high state
Amidst the circle of the drawing-room;
But no! the bodies of the proud and great

Are wont to rot in vault and marble tomb,
As if the bones of self-styled noble forms
Should be reserved for better sorts of worms!

Perhaps thou trod'st some humbler walk of life,
And wert from truth and virtue led astray
By one who promised thee the name of wife,
And praised thy symmetry but to betray
The soul, confiding, innocent, and young,
That readily believed his flatt'ring tongue.

Thy perfect mechanism may have served

Some opera dancer, fraught with every grace-
Save modesty and with that courage nerved
Which quickly sears a young and blushing face,
When oft submitted to the searching gaze
Of thousand eyes 'midst thousand lights' full blaze.

And where's the soul that o'er thy frame once shed
The "poetry of motion?" Who can tell

Into what realm the immortal part hath fled?

Or if in misery or joy it dwell?

Or if each thought of all its earthly ties
Fades from the memory when the body dies.

SONG.

By BARHAM, the author of the Ingoldsby Legends.
'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being,
Whose mortal form reposes with the dead,
Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing,
Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness :
I hear her voice, in still, small accents tell,
Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness :
Where those who loved on earth, together dwell,

Ah! yet awhile blest shade, thy flight delaying, The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer: To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying, The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!

Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted, She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay : Then as on earth, in tenderest love united, Together seek the realms of endless day!

SAPPHO AT THE LOOM.

From MARY ANNE BROWNE's Sketches from the Antique.

LIKE some rare statue. pale and meek,
With braided hair of raven gloom,
While downcast lashes shade her cheek,
The maiden sits before her loom.
A single vagrant tress alone

Just trembles in the morning air,
And the swift shuttle, lightly thrown

By her small fingers, tells that life is there.

And still beneath those fingers grows
The tapestry of varied hues.

There the heroic story glows,

There doth her soul itself infuse

There is a glorious beauty shed,

Such as from genius only springs;

She pours her spirit o'er the thread,

As o'er her lovely lyre's melodious strings.

Weave on, weave on! 'Tis not alone

Thy handiwork that fills thy heart.
Weave on, weave on! The die is thrown-
The slave of tyrant love thou art.

He weaves thy weary destiny,

A web too tangled and too dim:
Alas, alas! thou canst not fly-

He binds thee in that fatal web to him.

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Yet art thou calm! Still weave thy web;
Thy cheek hath no impassion'd glow;
Thy heart's deep current is at ebb,
Though surely comes again its flow.
"Tis well to contemplate thee thus:
For when thy songs melodious roll,
Thy beauty is as nought to us-
"Tis all forgotten in thy spoken soul!

Brilliants.

GLORY.

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright:
But look'd too near, have neither heat nor light.
WEBSTER.

FATE OF THE DARING.

Fame and an early death: that is the doom
Of all who greatly dare. I do not speak
Of men who have with cautious footsteps trod
The way to the heights of power; but such as plunged
At once into renown, and gave their blood

For reverence from unborn posterity.

BARRY CORNWALL.

WOMAN'S EYE.

Where is any author in the world,
Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

SHAKSPERE.

SORROW.

What a damp hangs on me!

These sprightly tuneful airs but skim along
The surface of my soul, not enter there:
She does not dance to this enchanting sound.
How, like a broken instrument beneath
The skilful touch, my joyless heart lies dead!
Nor answers to the master's hand divine!

YOUNG.

A BUSY BRAIN.

My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass,
Wherein m'imaginations run like sands,
Filling up time; but then are turn'd and turn'd:
So that I know not what to stay upon,
And less to put in art.

JONSON.

FALSE LOVE.

Who that feels what love is here,
All its falsehoods-all its pain,
Would, for ev'n Elysium's sphere,
Risk the fatal dream again?
Who, that 'midst a desert's heat
Sees the waters fade away,
Would not rather die than meet
Streams again as false as they?

FRIENDSHIP.

I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with my love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense.

MOORE.

SHAKSPERE.

DEATH.

How the innocent,
As in a gentle slumber, pass away!
But to cut off the knotty thread of life
In guilty men, must force stern Atropos
To use her sharp knife often.

LIBERTY.

MASSINGER.

The mountains-they proclaim

The everlasting creed of liberty!

That creed is written on the untrampled snow,
Thunder'd by torrents which no power can hold,
Save that of God when He sends forth his cold,

And breath'd by winds that through the free heaven blow.

BRYANT.

LIFE AND DEATH.

A. You, in your fierce desire to vanquish me, Forget this truth :—the Gods who give us life, Give us death also!

B.

Both are good:-what better,

After tempestuous hours, than deep repose!

BARRY CORNWALL.

A JUDGE.

A judge-a man so learn'd,

So full of equity, so noble, so notable;
In the process of his life, so innocent;
In the manage of his office so incorrupt;
In the passages of state so wise; in
Affection of his country so religious;
In all his services to the king so
Fortunate and exploring, as envy
Itself cannot accuse, or malice vitiate.

CHAPMAN.

READING A LETTER.

I have seen him when he hath had

A letter from his lady dear, he bless'd
The paper that her hand had travell❜d over,
And her eye look'd on, and would think he saw
Gleams of the light she lavish'd from her eyes,
Wandering amid the words of love there traced
Like glow-worms among beds of flowers.

BAILEY.

HONOUR.

By Jove, I am not covetous of gold,
Nor care I, who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

SHAKSPERE.

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