HE butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing;
The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray,
As it goes dancing on its idle way;

The sunflower, in broad daylight glistening;
Are types of her who in the festive ring

Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display,
And glittering thro' her bright but useless day,
Flaunts, and goes down a disregarded thing!"
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee,

Whose industry for future hours provides ;
The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides
Unseen along,-the flower which gives the lea
Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee,
And of the active worth thy modest merit hides.

BERNARD Barton.

WINTER.

(TO WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT.)

INTER hath bound the brooks in icy chains;
The bee that murmured in the cowslip bell,
Now feasts securely in his honeyed cell
Silence is on the woods and on the plains,
And darkening clouds and desolating rains
Have marred your forest-fountain's quiet spell ·
Yet, tho' retired from these awhile ye dwell,
Your hearts' best hoard of poesy remains.
The sports of childhood, the exhaustless store
Of home-born thoughts and feelings dear to each
Converse, or silence eloquent as speech;
History's rich page, tradition's richer lore
Of tale and legend prized in days of yore ;—
These, worthy of the Muse, are in your reach

AST the grey tombs what space an arrow flies,
The darkening road winds down a hollow glade,
Romantic spot! and sweetly solemn made
By over-arching trees of giant size:

Above, Aricia's battlements arise,

As on the branches of the lofty shade

The town were based, with all its long parade
Of domes and turrets basking in the skies.

More shadowy depths and varied tints of green
Not Vallombrosa clothe,-here, stranger, stay,
And on thy tablet spread the sylvan scene :—

Nor charmed alone the prospect's fair array;

Old memories my raptures flashed between,

And peopled thick the silent Appian Way.

Rome 1822.

CHARLES Strong.

4

S this the spot where Rome's eternal foe
Into his snares the mighty legions drew,
Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,

A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?

Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue Rushed on the bosom of the lake below?

The mountains that gave back the battle-cry Are silent now; perchance yon hillocks green Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie.

Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene; Never left softer breeze a fairer sky

To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene!

CHARLES Strong.

ACING, as I was wont, on day of rest,
Amid the Coliseum's awful round,

From distant corridor there came a sound,

As of a voice that published tidings blest :

Along the vaulted way I forward press'd,
And soon a group of dark-eyed Romans found,
Intent and fixed, like men some spell had bound,
The Preacher with such power their souls address'd.

The words he spake, his gesture, and rapt look, Betokened one whom Heaven had rendered bold To ope the treasures of the sacred book.

Methought the Shepherd visibly forsook

Temples, where holy things were bought and sold,
For two or three thus gathered to his fold.

CHARLES STRONG.