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'Midst the wild billows

Why then delay?

Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;

A heart that hath cherish'd

Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!"

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
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,

And the bird, whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,

With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,

Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time eves-
Music-beauty-all she leaves !

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,

Calmer is her gentle heart.

Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily's leaf,

She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose !

THE IVY-SONG.'

OH! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?

Ivy thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er,

Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more,

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,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victor's tent:

Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave—

Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

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,
Ivy all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down-
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
But thou art there!-serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,

Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread

O'er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
-Days pass-thou Ivy never sere,1
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
Temple, pillar, shrine!

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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.

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