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THE MOON.

I HERE swear,

Eterne Apollo! that thy sister fair
Is of all these the gentlier mightiest.
When thy gold breath is misting in the west,
She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she sits most meek and most alone;
As if she had not pomp subservient;

As if thine eye, high poet! was not bent
Towards her with the muses in thine heart;
As if the ministering stars kept not apart,
Waiting for silver-footed messengers.

O moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
O moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip,
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy-leaf
Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house.-The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine-the myriad sea!
O moon! far-spooming ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.......
What is there in thee, moon! that thou should'st
My heart so potently? When yet a child [move
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled.
Thou seem'dst my sister; hand in hand we went
From eve to morn across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously;
No tumbling water ever spake romance,
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
No woods were green enough, no bowers divine,
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer-tide of blossoming,
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen;
Thou wast the mountain-top-the sage's pen-
The poet's harp-the voice of friends-the sun;
Thou wast the river-thou wast glory won;
Thou wast my clarion's blast-thou wast my steed-
My goblet full of wine-my topmost deed:-
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely moon!
O what a wild and harmonized tune
My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality.

ROBIN HOOD.

TO A FRIEND.

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen north, and chilling east,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No! the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill,

Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe;"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze :
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.

FANCY.

EVER let the fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thoughts still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: what do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the night doth meet the noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,
Fancy, high-commission'd:-send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, altogether,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it:-thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;

Rustle of the reaped corn;

Sweet birds antheming the morn:

And, in the same moment-hark!

'Tis the early April lark,

Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meager from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn tree,
When the hen-bird's wing dost rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;

Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering,

While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the god of torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,

While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh
Of the fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string,
And such joys as these she'll bring.—
Let the winged fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.

SOULS of poets dead and gone,
What elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine!
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,—
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new-old sign
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What elysium have ve known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born in the city of Bath, in the year 1797. His parents were connected with some of the first families of the kingdom, and on the completion of his education he entered under favourable auspices the circles of the most refined and brilliant society in the world. At twenty-eight he was married to an accomplished and beautiful woman, and soon afterward retired to a countryseat in Sussex, where he continued in quietness and ease until 1831, when an unexpected misfortune changed the current of his life. His wife had brought him a considerable fortune, but it had been expended; his father now suddenly became a bankrupt and left the country, and the income settled on the poet at his marriage was never after paid. Literature had hitherto been his amusement, it was from this time his profession. He had already written for the stage and the boudoir, he now made the country everywhere vocal with his comedies and his songs. To the end of his life he was one of the most industrious as well as one of the most successful authors of England. His early education and habits, however, had unfitted him for his new position; he could not fall back into a sufficiently economical course until the pressure of circumstances had impoverished him beyond a remedy; and though the amount received for his various writings was large, he was always embarrassed. Excitement and suffering at length induced disease, and he died, at Cheltenham, on the twenty-second day of April, 1839.

Beside his lyrical pieces he wrote two or three novels, a large number of tales and sketches in the "New Monthly" and other magazines, and more than thirty dramas, of which "Perfection," "Tom Noddy's Secret," "Sold for a Song," and others, have been successfully produced in the American theatres.

With the exception of MOORE, BAYLY was probably the most popular English song-writer of his age; and even the author of the "Irish Melodies"-unequalled as he is for graceful imagery and delicately turned expres

sion-never has been more universally a favourite. "Oh, no! we never mention her," "The Soldier's Tear," "She wore a Wreath of Roses," and many more of his songs, are familiar wherever the language is spoken; they are of that class which,

"in his solitude,

The singer singeth to his own sad heart;"

simple, natural, graceful and tender-descriptive of the feelings of all, in a language which all can appreciate and understand. An English critic supposes that he is indebted for much of his popularity to his former position in society; but the estimation in which which his compositions are held in this country, where his personal history was unknown, shows the opinion to be erroneous. It is not always easy to discover the true causes of an author's success. BAYLY was certainly not one of the first poets of his time-the century in which more true and enduring poetry was written than in any other since the invention of letters; and if he had essayed any thing of a more ambitious character than the simple ballad, doubtless he would have failed; but by her who dallies with a coronet and the maiden at her spinning-wheel, by the soldier, the student, and the cottage Damon, his melodies are sung with equal feeling and admiration. Many have written "songs," exquisitely beautiful as poems, which are never sung; and others, like DIEDIN, have produced songs for particular classes; but BAYLY touches the universal heart. He is never mawkish, never obscure, and rarely meretricious; his verse is singularly harmonious; every word seems chosen for its musical sound; and his modulation is unsurpassed. Our rough English flows from his pen as smoothly as the soft Italian from that of BOJARDO or METASTASIO.

Two editions of Mr. BAYLY's poems have been published in the present year; the first in Philadelphia, and the last, under the supervision of his widow, in London. No collection has ever been made of his tales and essays or dramatic writings.

THE FIRST GRAY HAIR.

THE matron at her mirror,

With her hand upon her brow, Sits gazing on her lovely face,Ay, lovely even now;

Why doth she lean upon her hand

With such a look of care?

Why steals that tear across her cheek?

She sees her first gray hair.

Time from her form hath ta'en away

But little of its grace;
His touch of thought hath dignified
The beauty of her face;

Yet she might mingle in the dance,
Where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye,
So beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often mark'd

By sorrow more than years,-
The wrinkle on the cheek may be
The course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of
A love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye betray
A heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife:
The lover of her youth

May proudly claim the smile that pays
The trial of his truth;
A sense of slight,-of loneliness,-
Hath never banish'd sleep :
Her life hath been a cloudless one;
Then wherefore doth she weep?

She look'd upon her raven locks,

What thoughts did they recall?
Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd
For banquet or for ball;

They brought back thoughts of early youth,
Ere she had learnt to check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls

That sported o'er her neck.

She seem'd to feel her mother's hand
Pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave
A kiss of kindness there;

She seem'd to view her father's smile,
And feel the playful touch
That sometimes feign'd to steal away
The curls she prized so much.
And now she sees her first gray hair!
Oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep, when she beholds
The first footmark of Time!

She knows that, one by one, those mute
Mementos will increase,

And steal youth, beauty, strength away,
Till life itself shall cease.

"Tis not the tear of vanity
For beauty on the wane;

Yet, though the blossom may not sigh
To bud and bloom again-

It cannot but remember,

With a feeling of regret,

The spring for ever gone,

The summer sun so nearly set.

Ah, lady! heed the monitor!
Thy mirror tells thee truth;
Assume the matron's folded veil,

Resign the wreath of youth:
Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow,
In her thou 'lt still look fair-

"T were well would all learn wisdom who Behold the first gray hair!

THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

UPON the hill he turn'd

To take a last fond look

Of the valley and the village church
And the cottage by the brook;
He listen'd to the sounds,

So familiar to his ear,

And the soldier leant upon his sword, And wiped away a tear.

Beside that cottage porch

A girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf,

Which flutter'd in the breeze; She breath'd a prayer for him,

A prayer he could not hear, But he paused to bless her, as she knelt, And wiped away a tear.

He turn'd and left the spot,

Oh, do not deem him weak;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek;
Go watch the foremost rank

In danger's dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.

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I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING.

You think I have a merry heart,

Because my songs are gay; But, oh! they all were taught to me By friends now far away; The bird retains his silver note, Though bondage chains his wing; His song is not a happy one,—

I'm saddest when I sing!

I heard them first in that sweet home
I never more shall see,

And now each song of joy has got
A plaintive turn for me!
Alas! 'tis vain in winter time

To mock the songs of spring,
Each note recalls some wither'd leaf,-
I'm saddest when I sing!

Of all the friends I used to love,
My harp remains alone,

Its faithful voice still seems to be
An echo of my own:

My tears, when I bend over it,

Will fall upon its string,

Yet those who hear me, little think
I'm saddest when I sing!

I NEVER WAS A FAVOURITE.

I NEVER was a favourite,

My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness

That bless'd her fairer child:

I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;

I've turn'd away, to hide my tears,

There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please,—and infancy
Can rarely give offence:
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,

I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck!
How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learn'd to know thy worth: For even there I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn;

And wish'd-for others wish'd it too-
I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate;
But in my sister's face

There was a look of love, that claim'd
A smile or an embrace:

But when I raised my lip to meet
The pressure children prize,

None knew the feelings of my heart,-
They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses deck'd
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege

Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came,-
A time of sorrow too;
For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venom'd mantle threw ;
The features, once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied day and night, I watch'd beside her bed;

And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillow'd her poor head.

She lived!-and loved me for my care,-
My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend.

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.

SHE wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling
Beneath her curls of jet;
Her footstep had the lightness
Her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown;

I saw her but a moment

Yet, methinks, I see her now, With the wreath of summer flowers Upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange blossoms,

When next we met, she wore; The expression of her features

Was more thoughtful than before; And standing by her side was one Who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her, leaving that dear home She ne'er might view again.

I saw her but a moment

Yet, methinks, I see her now, With the wreath of orange blossoms Upon her snowy brow.

And once again I see that brow,
No bridal wreath is there,
The widow's sombre cap conceals

Her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.

I see her broken-hearted!

Yet, methinks, I see her now In the pride of youth and beauty, With a garland on her brow.

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