So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality
The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse
Their glory, heightening to the starry blue
Of all embosoming eternity.

VII. NIGHT AND DEATH.-WHITE.1

MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus, with the host of heaven came;

And lo! creätion widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darknèss lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou madest us blind?
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?--
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

VIII. NIGHT.-SHELLEY.

How beautiful this night! The balmiëst sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this movelèss scene.

Heaven's ĕbon vault,

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,-
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemèth it

A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene

1 Joseph Blanco White, a Spanish gentleman of Irish descent, who came to England in 1810, and devoted himself to literature, chiefly through

the magazines and periodical press. He was born in 1775, and died in 1841.

2 Hěs' pe rus, the evening star, especially Venus.

Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence, undisturbed, might watch ălōne,
So cold, so bright, so still.

IX. THE MOON.-CHARLOTTE SMITH,1

QUEEN of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way:
And while I gaze, thy mild and plăcid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woê

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh that I soon may reach thy world serene
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!

X. THE STARS.-DARWIN.2

ROLL on, ye stars; exult in youthful prime;
Mark with bright curves the printlèss steps of Time;
Near and more near your beamy cars approach,
And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach.
Flowers of the sky, ye, too, to age must yield,
Frail as your silken sisters of the field.

1 Mrs. Charlotte Smith (Miss Turner) was born in King Street, St. James Square, London, May 4th, 1749. Her first collection of sonnets and other poems was very popular, passing through no less than eleven editions. Her first novel, "Emmeline," which was exceedingly popular, appeared in 1788. Her novels and other prose works, in all about forty volumes, were much admired by Sir Walter Scott and other contemporaries; but she is now most known and most valued

for her poetry, which abounds with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty. She died on the 28th of October, 1806.

'Erasmus Darwin, an English physician, poet, and botanist, was born at Elton, in 1731, and after taking his degree at Edinburgh, pursued his professional career at Litchfield, from which place he re moved to Derby, where he died in 1802. Dr. Darwin was an original thinker, a great adept in analogies, and an able versifier.

1

Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush,
Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush,
Headlong, extinct, to one dark center fall,
And death, and night, and chaos mingle all;
Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm,
Immortal Nature lifts her changeful form,
Mounts from her funeral pyre, on wings of flame,
And soars and shines, another and the same.

SECTION XXIX.

I.

153. LOCHINVAR'S RIDE.

H, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,

best I

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

2. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

3. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" 4. "I long wooed your daughter,-my suit you denied ;Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland möre lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

5. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— "Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. 6. So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, ""Twere better, by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 7. One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scar; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 8. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SCOTT.

II.

154. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

WORD

ORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O! ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl

Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ;

And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

2. Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying!

8. His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows ǎlōne,

For strength and for courage trying

The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;

They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying!

4. The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ;
(Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.

The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

5. The panting steed, with a drooping crest,

Stood weary.

The king returned from her chamber of rest,

The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eyeing,

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck :
O, steed—that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

CAROLINE NORTON.