THE MINSTREL'S REVERIE.

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.

From "The Minstrel,"

Habe instrel's Reverie.

ND now the downy cheek and deepened voice
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime,
And walks of wider circuit were his choice,
And vales more mild, and mountains more sublime.
One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme,
It was his chance to wander far abroad,

And o'er a lonely eminence to climb,

Which heretofore his foot had never trode:
A vale appeared below, a deep, retired abode.

Thither he hied, enamoured of the scene;
For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell,
Here scorched with lightning, there with ivy green,
Fenced from the north and east this savage dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made :
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell

Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, surveyed Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold arrayed.

Along this narrow valley you might see
The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And here and there a solitary tree,

Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crowned.
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, And herbs for food with future plenty teem. Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul: He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll, When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole :

"Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose!

THE MINSTREL'S REVERIE.

Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,

Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.

"Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire?

Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid;

To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire?

It is thy weakness that requires their aid;

To palaces, with gold and gems inlayed?
They fear the thief and tremble in the storm ;

To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?
Behold the victor vanquished by the worm!
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!

"True dignity is his whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resigned,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow."
This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beamed the evening star;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,

Cynthia came riding on her silver car;

And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

be Post.

ARK! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
And having dropped the expected bag-pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But, oh, the important budget! ushered in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings! Have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?*
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

*The American War was then taking place.