To wake another plaintive strain! What though I dare not hope to wake Such strains as other bards have sung, Yet may I love thee for the sake Of those who play'd thy chords among ; For their sweet strains would joy me well, When sadness in my soul did dwell. 'Twas Nature gave my heart the glow Of sorrow-soothing Poesy! But poor Kirke White was first to shew The minstrel's plaintive lyre to me. Alas! the harp which Henry strung Shall sound no more by Trent's dark wave,-In mournful silence now 't is hung Upon the yew tree o'er his grave; In blithesome boyhood's happy days By "Wilford Church," through "Clifton Grove;" And oft methought my soul could hear His mellow lute, or plaintive lay, And see the waters winding clear, Where oft he mused at close of day: My fancy scarcely seemed debarred And oh! how oft and earnestly My lone heart sighed for power to sing, In strains of artless melody, The sacred scenes which thought would bring Unto my keen inquiring mind, While musing on those treasured lays Which the immortal of my kind Bequeathed us in their early days. Yet ah! I knew not how to gain My simple lyre! I scarce can tell Where first I woke a song from thee; Perchance 'twas in some lonesome dell, Not far from "Aln's flowery lea." Though gladness glistened on my cheek When first thy numbers 'gan to flow, Yet thy sweet murmurs were too weak My souls deep dreaming thoughts to show: Yet did I love and cherish thee, For thou wert company to me! Oh! many times when sorrows keen A solace to my aching heart; By turns I sung of early love, Of social mirth, of rural glee, The secret charms of silent grove, The lovely scenes of holme and lea,- No more of social mirth I'll sing, Who still my care-worn mind enchains Then, oh! my feeble, faultering lyre ! Aid me to sing fair virtue's cause, Man's duties to his fallen kind; Nature's fair charms, and changeless laws,- I will not woo thy mystic aid To prostitute it when 'tis won; I woo thee that when I am laid Low in the grave-my troubles done- For one who mourned his abject lot: Morning Star Lodge, Stannington District. S. SHERIF. "The lover was fickle, and would not remember,- Tis evening-that inspiring time, when the soul leaps up to heaven. The moon is shining from the path of blue, and stars are peeping through the fleecy clouds-the dew is falling on the thirsty flowers, which in return send forth their grateful fragrancethe world is hushed, and silence reigns supreme. How grand it is to stand at such an hour alone upon the earth, and let the imagination rove amidst the boundless universe, till lost in the sublime immensity! See yon clear lake pillowing the moonbeams on its crystal bosom-not a wave disturbs its smooth and glassy surface, but there its waters lie beneath the smile of heaven, calm and unsullied as the breast of innocence; and who are they that wander on its banks, interchanging vows of deathless love? He is the Lord of Oxford's only sonshe is Annette, the daughter of a humble yeoman; yet is she beautiful as morning, with a heart tender, pure, and affectionate as that of an angel. And there they walk together side by side. Their first and young love has burst forth-their troth is plighted, and their vows of affection are registered in heaven. He has sworn to love her for aye, and she has devoted to him her very soul-blessed him with that deep and earnest affection which time can never change, nor death itself subdue. Who so happy as they? For now the springs of their pure love, so long sealed up, have first gushed forth, and mingled in one stream which they fondly hope no power can ever divide. Poor foolish lovers! Know they not that pride and gold dissever hearts, which sorrow, time, nor death could alienate? Yet as they kiss, and breathe the warm "good night," they seem as though their happiness would last for ever! A year has passed-so short a space, and yet how many changes it has wrought! 'Tis morn-the sun is streaming light o'er hill and dell; the merry lark on lightsome wing is carolling on high; the bells are ringing in yon village church, and noisy rooks, scared by the sound, disturb the air with their harsh notes; the altar is adorned with wreaths, and the pathway is strewed with fresh-gathered flowers. A bridal train approaches the bridegroom is the Lord of Oxford's son-but who the bride? The fair and gentle Annette? No, no-it is another! His father's iron will had crushed his first and purest love. He sought relief in other's charms, until at length, she, whose enduring affection even his unkindness could not quench, was but remembered as an idle dream of youth. The heart that he had vowed to her was given to a high-born maid, whom now he leads to yonder altar. The marriage rite proceeds, and as the bridegroom takes the bride's fair hand, a shriek is heard, such as is born of bitterest agony. It is the fond Annette, who, when she saw him whom her soul adored-in whom her very being and happiness were bound-pledge to another the heart that should have been her own, sent forth her grief in one wild shriek and died! The rite is over, and the bridal band returns-but sad and gloomy as a funeral train; and poor Annette is borne by her fond, weeping friends, to await her journey to the peaceful grave! And many years have passed, bearing along their load of sorrow and of crime. 'Tis night-the moon again is smiling on the earth as if she saw no scenes of misery there. In yon lone churchyard is a humble grave-there sweet flowers bloom, and yew trees cast their deep and solemn shade; a rude stone marks the spot, on which by the pale moon's fitful light thou mayst discern, engraved in simple characters, the name "ANNETTE." And who is he that stands beside her grave, with sorrow traced in furrows on his brow? "Tis he-her faithless lover! He heard her dying shriek, and saw her lifeless body borne away, and knew himself her murderer! From thenceforth he felt no peace. His young bride early died, and he was left alone within the world. Then he remembered her whose love he cast away like a faded and worthless flower; and all his wealth, though great, he would have given to call her back to life again. Even now, as he stands moodily beside her grave, his first love rushes over his troubled heart, and the young feelings that made earth a paradise, mock him with bliss he never can taste. It was he who raised the stone that tells her early doom, and by his care these flowers bloom over her grave-sweet emblems of her purity. But neither this tardy act of kindness, nor the pang that wrings his heart, can ever atone for the deep wrongs that broke poor Annette's heart. Rob Roy Lodge, Stepney District. E. D. CHATTAWAY. REFLECTIONS ON NOBODY. BY JOHN DENT, JUNR.- ZETA.) REFLECTION is surely an excellent thing in its way, and few persons step very far out of the right path who daily make use of it in a proper manner. Yet it must be acknowledged by all, that it is both more seemly, and more beneficial, to use it (as we should do water) to the purifying and cleansing our own selves, than to throw it rashly and indiscriminately around us upon others. "Cast reflections on nobody," is an old adage, and as it appears to me to be a very sensible one, I therefore have less hesitation in taking it as a motto on this occasion. Nevertheless, viewing the matter in the abstract, it is difficult in our zig-zag passage through life, at all times, and on every occasion, to act strictly up to this motto; for the best of us, when we have made what use of reflection we think necessary, have sometimes a little to spare, and are apt at times to throw a slight sprinkling on the various acquaintance around us. It happens, however, in the natural course of events, that I have now a little of the said commodity on hand, and as my motto prevents me from casting it rashly on the persons around me, I may as well ease my mind by scattering it on a certain little, unfriendly, tittle-tattling, invisible phantom, or sprite-a something, which, although I have never either felt, heard, or seen, has still often been near me, which has pestered and plagued me by night and by day for years past-which still does sometimes annoy me, and which, I am afraid, will continue to plague both me and others for years to come. It is true that because it is invisible, many deem it a nonentity; but if so, all I can say is, that it is a very wonderful, clever, and industrious one; for although all its actions and movements are invisible, secret, and mysterious, yet by some singular influence it performs them more promptly and certainly than any nonentity, except itself, ever did or ever will do. Thus, although I am not exactly one of those, who, in moonlight nights would try to transform every old stump into a spectre, and my own shadow into some gliding ghost; yet do I maintain that the mysterious phantom I allude to, is one that glides constantly and industriously around the homes of quiet and respectable people, and like some fantastic dobby, plays them innumerable mischievous tricks, thereby causing the peaceable inmates much trouble and confusion; and therefore, I fancy, on examination it will be found that this phantom is in reality as much to be dreaded as any of the knocking, thumping ghosts, or scratching Spring-heeled-Jacks we ever heard of. I perfectly recollect, when a child, whilst sitting around the fire on a cold, wintry night, how close I used to creep to the side of a gossiping neighbour, while she was relating some ghost story of thrilling interest, and how I durst scarcely look round to the dark corners of the room lest some headless spectre met my view. And afterwards when I had retired to bed, how I shuddered in the dark at the creaking of a door, or any other slight sound, because forsooth I well knew that Nobody was near me; and how on the following morning I laughed at the idea of my having been frightened by Nobody. However, since I have grown up, I have long ceased to laugh at any such idea, for I find that all the race of modern phantoms together, have not so much real influence as the potent phantom Nobody. Yet this is the unfriendly, fickle, mischievous sprite I allude to; and although some may affect to despise it, yet if the truth were told, it would probably be found that there are few persons who have not in some dark and dreary night felt a cold, supernatural shudder, creep over them when the phantom Nobody was present. For although we know nothing of its form or shape, or indeed whether it has form or shape at all, yet there is always something to remind us when Nobody is near; and although this phantom is despised or honoured, shunned or sought after, according to the caprice of the moment, nevertheless its mysterious influence is generally known, and universally acknowledged. In our school days we can all recollect what a mischievous imp it used to be, and what scurvy tricks it played us. If a book was torn or blotted, a pen spoiled, a slate broken, a ruler cut into notches, or a rod burned, it was always found on inquiry that Nobody had done it. We recollect, too, that this Nobody had its good qualities also; for if any of us had robbed a bird's nest, torn our clothes, laid on the damp grass, got our feet wet, or done any other thing not exactly according to strict boarding-school discipline-if any other person saw us, we most probably suffered for our carelessness, but if Nobody saw us, we had perfect confidence we were safe, and should escape a flogging; for even if Nobody afterwards told the master, we invariably found the VOL. 8-No. 1-C. matter was mysteriously hushed up, while if any other body told, we were sure to receive severe punishment. This must, at least, be considered as one favourable trait in the character of Nobody. Still we were rebellious urchins, and were after all ungrateful for such kindness; for it must be acknowledged we often made poor Nobody a scape-goat in our juvenile delinquencies. If a few flowers, radishes, or apples, were abstracted by any of us from a neighbouring garden, the culprit frequently got off with flying colours by laying the blame upon Nobody. Not only in the days of childhood can we trace the existence of the phantom Nobody, but in the blooming days of youth and manhood we still find the said Nobody playing a conspicuous part in the drama of life--sometimes appearing to be much sought after and beloved, at other times to be much shunned and despised. When young lovers are wandering together, paying their respects to the silver moon, we ever find them most happy and confiding when Nobody is near; while when married, they frequently are exceedingly cheerful and complaisant when in the company of others, and seem most inclined to jar, scold, and disagree, when Nobody is with them. If we continue to trace Nobody through the whole scene of life, we shall still find the same paradoxical traits in the character of this mysterious being. 66 66 Nobody has a finger in every pie. Nothing can scarcely be thought about, set about, or done, without some reference to the phantom Nobody. This mysterious being in many cases seems to be avoided in fashionable life, and treated with considerable disrespect," You shall not go to such a party or ball," says a fashionable lady to her budding daughter; 'you don't understand such things yet, my dear. I do assure you Nobody will be there." 'Pray, do not wear such a huge bonnet, my dear," says another mamma, "for I assure you Nobody wears such monstrous articles of dress now-a-days." On the contrary, the very time duellists (sometimes) choose to meet, and young ladies always choose to elope, is the precise time when they think this phantom is present, and when Nobody observes them. From the number of such delicate cases in which the presence of Nobody seems to be specially desired, one might imagine that prudence and taciturnity were among its chief qualifications; nevertheless we must confess that the phantom Nobody has sometimes been proved to be a tattler. "Now it is certainly an exceedingly scandalous affair," says Mrs. Gadabout to her pretty friend, Miss Whisper; "but pray let it go no further." "Depend upon it," replies Miss Whisper; "the secret is safe enough with me, for I shall relate the circumstance to Nobody.' Now in this case, and in many similar cases, although great confidence seems to be placed on Nobody, yet it appears there is treachery in the wind. The report spreads-inquiry is made—and in the end it turns out that Nobody has "let the cat out of the bag," and told the secret. And I am sorry to say that Nobody, in this way alone, does immense mischief, and kicks up innumerable broils by such shameful breaches of confidence— setting friends at enmity, lovers at variance, introducing discord and strife among the nearest relations, and sometimes by its tattling propensities even putting a whole neighbourhood into violent commotion. But setting aside such treacherous habits, the said phantom subjects every family to numerous other petty annoyances; and the most respectable and peaceable families are sometimes pestered and plagued by its domestic antics. A mirror is broken, or china ornaments are smashed;-inquiry is made, the servants are examined, and it generally appears they are all quite ignorant of the affair; all they know is, that-Nobody was in the room at the time the accident happened, therefore, of course, it is finally determined that Nobody did it. Again, crockery broken, panes are cracked, chairs are disabled, tables are scratched, linen is soiled, bread is wasted, sugar is eaten, tarts have vanished; the wind is raised, the mistress scolds, the innocent children cry, the ill-treated servants are indignant, the master creeps away, the cat is kicked out; investigation commences, and it is soon clearly proved that the children and servants had nothing to do in the matter-that, as usual, Nobody had been in the rooms, and that, in fact, the whole string of mischievous incidents had actually been known of and perpetrated by Nobody. Poor nurses, too, are often played upon by this invisible phantom. Children catch cold, receive bruises, get black eyes and broken noses; and although Nobody was there at the time such accident happened, yet the innocent nurse is frequently blamed for such unfortunate occurrences. is After these, and numerous other cases, in which we clearly see Nobody is to blame, we might well expect, on looking around, to find that the different classes of mankind would at all times be inclined to censure this phantom, and to "cast reflections on Nobody;" |