SONG. Woo her when, with rosy blush, Summer eve is sinking; When, on rills that softly gush, Stars are softly winking; When, through boughs that knit the bower, Woo her, till the gentle hour Wake a gentler feeling. Woo her, when autumnal dyes Youth is passing over, Warn her, ere her bloom is past, To secure her lover. Woo her, when the northwinds call At the lattice nightly; Blaze the fagots brightly; While the wintry tempest round Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound Love's delightful story. 215 GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. BY W. J. PABODIE. "The world is too much with us."-WORDSWORTH. Go forth into the fields, Ye denizens of the pent city's mart! Go forth, and know the gladness nature yields To the care-wearied heart. Leave ye the feverish strife, The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng: Hark! from each fresh-clad bough, Or blissful soaring in the golden air, Bright birds, with joyous music, bid you now To spring's loved haunts repair. The silvery gleaming rills Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea; Or gaily dancing down the sunny hills, Call loudly in their glee! GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. 217 And the young, wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, In voice low whispering, 'mong the embowering trees, Woos you to her embrace. Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Seek ye the solemn wood, Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, Stand by the tranquil lake, Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, And if within your breast, Hallowed to Nature's touch one chord remain ; If aught save worldly honours find you blest, A strange delight shall thrill, A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove; W 218 CAPE COLONNA. Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill, O, in the calm, still hours, The holy Sabbath hours, when sleeps the air, And heaven and earth, decked with her beauteous flowers, Lie hushed in breathless prayer,— Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, CAPE COLONNA. BY GEORGE HILL. 'Tis summer's eve. The winds are still; 219 CAPE COLONNA. What hues of gorgeous beauty, o'er Morea's hills and mountains rolled, Their summits veil! where sinks the sun, Whose wild and lofty summits driven, The rosy twilight lingers, till They seem to melt and blend with Heaven: Turn to the ruin, lone and dim, That bears the name, and should have crowned The dust of him,* the spirit of Whose song, though mute, is breathed around. Minstrel the thrilling summons of Whose lyre the men of Greece obeyed— Soldier! whose charge had freed them, ere His hand had sheathed her battle-blade! Here should his relics rest, beside This time-worn column, gray and rent; His name, his epitaph; the stone, Whereon 'tis graved, his monument. * Byron, whose name is inscribed on one of the columns. W. |