'Midst the wild billows Why then delay? Bird of the greenwood! "Chide not my lingering A heart that hath cherish'd Through winter's long day, THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. "I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?-whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould.". Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health. BEAR them not from grassy dells Kindred to the breeze they are, And the bird, whose song is free, Spread them not before the eyes, With the bright things which have birth With the violet's breath would rise Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art, Calmer is her gentle heart. Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, Types of lovelier forms than these, Therefore, in the lily's leaf, She can read no word of grief; Therefore once, and yet again, THE IVY-SONG.' OH! how could fancy crown with thee, Ivy thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song and beaker once went round, Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine. 1 This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs. Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here. The Roman, on his battle-plains, Though shining there in deathless green, Urn and sculpture half divine The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest treadIvy they know thee well! And far above the festal vine, Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, -The Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, High from the fields of air look down- Ivy, Ivy! all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine. 'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread O'er classic plains, through deserts free, Still meets decay and thee. All are thine, or must be thine- The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced, is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself; which though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old;-a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king. "All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas." MILTON. AGAIN! oh, send that anthem peal again Through the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky! Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, The banners thrill as if with victory! 1 "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."- - Lycidas. |