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EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE."
I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell,
To gather flowers and food for afterthought, As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,
To hive among the treasures they have wrought; And there a cottage from a sylvan screen, Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.
Around that hermit-home of quietude,
The elm-trees whispered with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude,
But happy birds that caroled wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew.
Around the door the honey-suckle climbed,
And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed
Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell.
Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood,
Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood,
That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharmed, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink.
The green earth heaved her giant waves around,
Where through the mountain vista, one vast height Towered heavenward without peer, his forehead bound
With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light, While far below, the lake in bridal rest, Slept with his glorious picture on her breast.
TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA.*
BY H. PICKERING.
Joy fills the vale,
Sweet bird of spring!
Remained in doubt
While from the rock
The zephyr bends.
Say! when the blast Of winter swept our whitened plains,—what clime, What sunnier realm thou charmedst, - and how was past
Thy joyous time?
• The song sparrow.
Did the green isles
Didst sing thy loves?
0, well I know Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers So near the sun have lesser charms than now
Our land of flowers :
Thou art returned
Within thy breast
And thy wild strain, Poured on the gale, is love's transporting voiceThat, calling on the plumy choir again,
Bids them rejoice :
Nor calls alone
Or felt his power.
The poet too
TO THE FRINGILLA
Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few
His song admire !
But thy sweet lay,
And prompts thy strains.
0, if I knew Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire, Youth should enchanted throng, and beauty sue
To hear my lyre.
Oft as the year
Thy glad return.