EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE." BY. R. DAWES. I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell, 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, Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. 190 EXTRACT FROM GERALDINE. Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, 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, The violet Awakens at thy song, and peers from out While from the rock The columbine its crimson bell suspends, 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, O, well I know Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers Thou art returned On a glad errand,—to rebuild thy nest, 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— The poet too It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire; 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; O, if I knew Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire,— Oft as the year In gloom is wrapped, thy exile I shall mourn— Thy glad return. 193 |