SOUTHEY.

Light.

FROM THALABA.

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air,
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven.

In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky!
How beautiful is night!

"Love Never Faileth."

They sin who tell us love can die:
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.

In heaven, ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vault of hell:
Earthly these passions of the earth,

G

They perish where they had their birth;
But love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times distrest,
It here is tried and purified,

It hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here in toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.

WATTS.

To a Dear Little Boq,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

I MISS thee from my side,
With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib at morning-tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through;
In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then;
In thy sleepy, sad adieu,

When 'twas time for bed again!

I miss thee from my side,

When the dinner bustle's o'er :
When the orange I divide,

Or extract the apple's core;
What avails my hoarded store
Of barley-sugar, comfits sweet;
Thou art by my side no more;
Vacant is thy wonted seat!

I miss thee from my side,
With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking-horse astride,
Or beneath my table seated:-
Or when tired, and overheated,
With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,
Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite!

I miss thee from my side,

When brisk Punch is at the door;Vainly pummels he is bride,

Judy's wrongs can charm no more! He beat her till she's sore, may

She

may

flee ;

die and he may Though I loved their squalls of yore, What's the pageant now to me!

I miss thee from my side

When the light of day grows pale; When, with eyelids open'd wide, Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,

And the murder'd babes bewail;-
Yet, so greedy of thy pain,
That, when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again!

I miss thee from my side

In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide, And thy clasping fingers twine;Here are checker'd tumblers nine,Silent relics of thy play ;Here the mimic tea-things shine, Thou wouldst wash the livelong day!

Thy drum hangs on the wall;

Thy bird-organ sounds are o'er: Dogs and horses, great and smallWanting some a leg or more; Cows and sheep-a motley storeAll are stabled 'neath thy bed; And not one but can restore Memories sweet of him that's fled.

I miss thee from my side,

Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sigh'd

For thy chirping voice of mirth :
When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth,
If my little prattler's nigh!

I miss thee from my side,

With thy bright, ingenuous smile-
With thy glance of infant pride,
And the face no tears defile ;—
Stay, and other hearts beguile,
Hearts that prize thee fondly too!
I must spare thy pranks awhile ;-
Cricket of my hearth, adieu !

Music.

Yes, Music hath the key of memory,

And thoughts and visions buried deep and long,
Come at the summons of its sweetness nigh.

MYSTERIOUS keeper of the key
That opes the gates of memory,
Oft, in thy wildest, simplest strain,
We live o'er years of bliss again !

The sun-bright hopes of early youth,
Love-in its first deep hour of truth—
And dreams of life's delightful morn,
Are on thy seraph pinions borne !

Croly.

To the Enthusiast's heart, thy tone
Breathes of the lost and lovely one:
And calls back moments-brief as dear-
When last 'twas wafted on his ear.