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EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE."

BY. R. DAWES.

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.

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EXTRACT FROM GERALDINE.

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,

With joy ecstatic quivers every wing,
As floats thy note upon the genial gale,
Sweet bird of spring!

The violet

Awakens at thy song, and peers from out
Its fragrant nook, as if the season yet
Remained in doubt-

While from the rock

The columbine its crimson bell suspends,
That careless vibrates, as its slender stalk
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.

192

TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA.

Did the green isles

Detain thee long? or, 'mid the palmy groves

Of the bright south, where liberty now smiles,
Didst sing thy loves?

O, 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

On a glad errand,—to rebuild thy nest,
And fan anew the gentle fire that burned
Within thy breast

And thy wild strain,

Poured on the gale, is love's transporting voice— That, calling on the plumy choir again,

Bids them rejoice:

Nor calls alone

T'enjoy, but bids improve the fleeting hour—
Bids all that ever heard love's witching tone,
Or felt his power.

The poet too

It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire;

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Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few

His song admire!

But thy sweet lay,

Thou darling of the spring! no ear disdains;
Thy sage instructress, nature, says "Be gay!"
And prompts thy strains.

O, 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

In gloom is wrapped, thy exile I shall mourn—
Oft as the spring returns, shall hail sincere

Thy glad return.

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