' o '#!/n iir,-/-^ I'^vV 'A^LIBRARY6^ ^//njm,n.jaV ■vji LALii un •^'^^•"W,i; S >- ^^13DNVS0^^ lOSANGEL^j: vAy3A]Nn]WV ^MFI'MIVERS;^ ^lOSANGEi^>, ^\ iw-sm^ %HqAiNnmv^ /(.HilVJJO- *f ' ' ' "^ » €fe®iiipea. SELECTIONS FROM THE CONTRIBUTIONS OF €f)e Slmitt 'romaiN it nxc oliw uiiiinimi jvtauit" ViBO. MAIDSTONE; PRINTED FOR THE AMICI. MDCCCXXXVI. PKINTKU BY .1. UBO\\'N, KENT ARMS OITICK, ■WEEK STUKET, MAIDSTONE, FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. The following Contributions were read at tlie weekly Meetings of a Society of Gentlemen at Maid- stone, originally united by private friendship — and characteristically named "The Amici." It was natu- ral, that, at such Meetings, devoted as they were to literary improvement and mental research, a tone of conversation should be introduced materially ditfor- ing from that of promiscuous assemblies; this gradu- ally led to the production of original papers by many of the Members, and wlien a number of these had accumulated, it was considered that a Selection from tliem would form a Volume, (we hope the first of a se- ries) interesting to the Members, their families and friends, — the perusal of which, might, in after years, bring back the recollection, "and long keep the me- mory" of many happy hours, "green in their souls." 824;e2() CONTENTS. 1. THE MEETING OF THE AMICI . . . . 2. THE BANISHED LOUD 3. THE MOUNTAIN BOV 4. DOUBLE ACHOSTIC 5. A BALLAD (T/ial Old Grey Touer) 6. SONNET (To the Medway) 7. TO A I'RIMROSK 8. BONO (Here are we. Jolly Souls) . . 9. THE TEIUUIIED BRIDE 10. SONNET (On the county of Kent) . 1 1. Ei'iGRAM (/ told my Son, i>c.) ... F. T. T. T. F. D. L. M. L, IM. T. T. G. W. L. M. H. B. S. P. T. L. M. J. 15. F. I). 3 6 13 15 16 18 19 20 21 25 or. VI CONTENTS. \ 12. THE ATHEIST . ; T. L. M. , . . . 26 13. SONNET (To a Withered Rose) T. L. M 32 14. THE SUMMER STORM F. F. D 33 15. WOMAN W, P 35 1 6. TO KITS COTY HOUSE T. L. M 36 17. DESCRIPTIVE ACCOUNT OF ROMAN EATHS . . E. D 38 18. LINES (Addressed to my Sister, &^c.) T. L. M 41 19. TO A LADY (With a Rose Tree) F. F. D 46 20. ADDRESS TO AN INCONSTANT S. P 48 21. THE YOUNG SAILOR T. L. M 49 22. AN ANAGRAMMATIC ACROSTIC T. T 52 23. SONG (Time) S. P 54 24. IMPROMPTU (Fanny no longer think S^c.) . . J. B 55 25. THE BROKEN VOW T. L. M 56 26. EPIGRAM (Worth Makes the Man) F. F. D 61 27. INVITATION TO AN AUTUMN WALK F. F. D 62 28. TO (On her Birth Day) J. B 67 29. THE FLY ORCHIS G. W 68 30. ECHO TO AN ARTIST F. F. D 69 31. THE IGUANODON W. H. B 70 32. EPIGRAM (On presenting the Bones of the Iguanodon) , F. F. U 78 33. THE FAIR PENITENT F. F. D 78 34. 'tis night T. L. M 80 35. FAREWELL TO THE AMICI G. W 85 36. LINES (Balmy Dews, &;c.) T. L. M 86 CONTENTS. Vli 37. THE CORN FLOWER J'. L. M. . . 87 38. TO {Shall 1 ne'er more, (Jjc.) . . . W. P 89 •39. LIFE DFATII, AND IMMORTALITY T" L. M 90 40. TO (Mity'st thou ne'er feel, 6;c.) . S. P 95 41. CALl MNY .1. B 96 42. SIMILE (Man uiul the Butterjlu) F. F. I) 97 43. LINES (Addressed to Leeds Custle) T. L. iM .98 44. SONNET (To the Eagle) T. L. M 102 45. SONG CO come again to me love) T. L. i\I 103 46. SONNET (To the Rainhow) T. L. INI 104 47. THE ROSE, F. F. D 105 48. EriTAPii, (On a Mother) F. F. D 106 49. TO THE NIGHTINGALE W. II. 15 107 50. SONNET (To a Blasted Oak) 1'. L. ]\I 108 51. THE suiode's cravf. T. L. ]\I 109 52. lyipnoMPTv ( How piteous tis' 6;c,) G. W 112 53. TO THE VIOLET S. P 113 54. spring mornivc F. F. 1) 114 55. TO A SKY LARK, F. F. D 118 56. TO A LADY, T. L. M 118 57. SAPPHICS F. F. D 119 58. TO (Bv those eyes, t f,oiil. Vt.--, 1 h.ue felt 12 That were my tyrant thus within my power, I'd tear his heart from its foul lurking place, And fling his recreant liver to the dogs ! I'd crush him, — leave no atom of him whole, — But grind, and grind him into very dust, ^ And glory — that I'd thrust the fiend from earth ! Down, down, thou foolish heart — lie still, and learn To treasure up thy strength ; the day shall come, Whose dawn shall herald retribution : yes, — Then string thine every nerve to its full bent, Nor heed his cry for mercy (God forgives, — He'll find it perhaps in heaven) — -then, only deal The meed thou could'st expect — deep, full, revenge : Revenge ! revenge ! I live but for revenge ! T. L. M. 13 THE MOUNTAIN BOV. A SONG. O, I was born on the mountain. That bathes in the deep blue sky ; The red-berried ash by the fountain, Sang my first soft lullaby : Cradled in heather-bloom I lay, Rocked by the breezes wild, Greeting with smiles the God of day, For I am Nature's child. Free as the thistle's down I roam. O'er crag, through dale, and dell ; My bleating flock at my call come home, For they know, and love, me well. I love to lie by the shady spring, So calm, cool, clear, and deep ; AMiich, like a spirit murmuring. Oft lulleth me to sleep. When thunders roll, I love to gaze. On the Eagle's terrible eyes, Who, scowling, scorns the lightning's blaze. And proudly the storm defies; Yet more I love, (the storm passed by,) To watch the beautiful bow. Hanging in glory across the sky. In smiles o'er the valt below. 14 Where morn's first ray the vulture wakes, There — do I love to dwell ; Where the dreamy breeze, in music, takes Its flight o'er the heather -bell ; When bright stars steal through twilight dim, To look on the silver moon, I sit 'neath the birch, whose evening hymn To the babbling brook keeps tune. Who cares — not I, for the storms that roar. Though the dark-green pines they shiver ; For when the bellowing tempest's o'er. The sky's as blue as ever. Let me through heather-blossoms range. O'er the bleak crag, bare and wild ; I seek not wealth, nor power, nor change. Enough— I am Nature's child. T. L. M. 15 DOUBLE ACROSTIC. ox Tn« HSSTIXCS OF THK AHICI, BY TQOMAS TmPIN, UEMDEH. On ttif _ijj ^y Muse on the " Auiici," would descan t, ;E TV XOVEMKKU. Pale flower, it is, alas, too soon To rear thy little head ; It is not Spring, but Autumn's noon, That warms thy humble bed. And see, the rain is falling fast. The Robin only sings, And heavy gales are booming past. On Autumn's chilling wings. And on thy face, so pure, so sweet. The chilling hail will fall, And snow shall be thy winding-sheet, A withered leaf thy pall. Alas ! alas ! meek, modest, flower, Thou'lt never see the Spring ; Nor yet, bedecked in April's shower, The hawthorn, glittering. Cheerless, and cold, and dead, tliou'lt lie, A bruised, forgotten, thing ; Then, o'er thee, let sweet Pity sigh. Let birds thy requiem sing. W. H. B. 20 SONG FOR THE AMICI. (Set to Music bii the Writer.) Here are we jolly souls all met together. And ere we depart, we will soak well our clay ; We'll take no account of the time, or the weather, Or if it be night, boys, or if it be day ; For ours are the souls that together will cling. No troubles or strifes, can e'er sever, We'll laugh, and we'll quaff, and we'll merrily sing, For Friendship has bound us together. We care not for Whig, we care not for Tory, Though many there be who embark in such troubles. Oil ! 'tis like the foam of the waters before ye. That vanishes soon, all ending in bubbles ; Of that we'll have none, but in one magic ring. Round the bowl, through our lives, we'll endeavour, To laugh, and to quaff, and to merrily sing, For Friendship has bound us together. The wise one of old, said " There's time for all things. There's time for all things, that are under the sun ;" But Time, now-a-days, is so quick on his wings, He's gone, he's gone, — ere our pleasure's begun Then lose not a moment, fill high to my toast, (But each heart must be light as a feather). May we laugh, may we quaff, and with pride may we boast, That Friendship has bound us together, S. P. 21 THE PEIUURED BRIDE. One morn, one blue-eyeJ morn, To yon village church I strayed ; The sheep, all newly shorn, 'Mongst the graves, contented played. I paced the sacred pile , And I read the tablets o'er. And thought, how many a smile. Had graced lips that were no more. I could not blame the hand. Though it had not writ the truth — 'Twere cruel, sure, to brand With eternal censure, — youth. And many such were there, Whose lone parents, broken-hearted, Ilemerabered but how dear. Were those beings — when departed. (' lis a blessed thing to know From the cradle to the grave, That those gentle feelings flow Like a never-failing wave.) And some there were who slept, In serenity below, 22 Whose weary eyes had wept In the plentitude of woe. There was one whose tale I read, 'Twas a maiden, young and bright, Now mouldering with the dead. Who had fallen 'neath falsehood's blight. Alas ! how many years. There are fledged with woman's sigh ! And steeped in bitter tears. Wrung in sorrow from her eye. I thought oh ! what is life ! — Of the morrow ; then I thought, 'Twould make Miriam my wife ! And my soul with joy was fraught. On the window I did gaze. As its blazonry was lit By the sun's pure golden rays, — But a cloud o'er-shadowed it. Those rainbow-hues soon fled. All was dark, where bright of late. 'Twas a moral (rightly read,) Of our lives' all-chequered fate. I heard a joyous sound. Which was echoed through those aisles ; 23 I turned, and gazed around — There were beings — bright with smiles. They moved — with noiseless tread, Light as butterflies o'er flowers ; Or birds, when night hath fled. Gliding softly through their bowers. At the altar now they kneel. Well I knew her gentle tone — A gust withdrew her veil, — It was Miriam — mine own ! Her lover placed the ring On her trembling hand of snow. Oh ! "twas a cruel thing. Thus to seal another's woe. Cold, shuddering, then 1 sank, All unconscious on the earth : The bitter draught I'd drank. Was to him — a cup of mirth. I woke — and phrenzied, rushed To that altar-place of God : My fevered clieek was flushed. As with maddening rage I trod. I breathed a bitter prayer — That the Almiglity hand would blast 24 That false, and reckless pair. With its curses — to the last. Twas gTanted — for a flash Of fierce lightning struck the bride. And woe his cup did dash — For that perjured woman — died ! I fled My withered brain Was a blank for many years : That hath passed — and here again I'm a thing of grief and tears. With age I'm bending now. But I love to wander where She breathed that fatal vow- There to die's my daily prayer. And when the hour shall come, I'd be buried by her side ; Her grave shall be my home — She yet, shall be my Bride ! T. L. M. 25 SONNET 0» TBK COC.NTY Or KKNT. I've wandered through the counties of tliis land. And none can I compare to thee, dear Kent ; For in thyself thou hast what they command Conjoined ; yes, Nature's self to thee hath lent Her gayest smiles, as if 'twere her intent. Thee to exalt o'er all, and with her wand Outstretched, protect thee ever ; hand in hand, She goeth with thee. Truly well content. Here, with a placid mind, I'd ever dwell. In rapture with thy blue-eyed daughters fair, Who beauty's prize from Venus' self might bear : No sigh, to leave thee, would my bosom swell. Here to be blest, my grateful heart would tell Thy praise sweet Kent ! thou beauteously rare ! .1. B. EPIGIIAM. I told my Son the other day, He should leave off his school-boy play, I told him that for him I'd found. The best match in the Country round ; " Yes, Father, yes, I mean" — said he, " To join in one immediately" — Fool that I was — confound his tricks. He meant a muicli at tingUsticks, i. i. i). 26 TO THE ATHEIST. Lives there the man, with common sense endowed. Who doth, because he cannot level all The wondrous mysteries of the universe, To the mean standard of his shallow sense. Turn sceptic, and proclaim — there is no God ? If so, come hither, wisest of mankind. Or most perverted of thy race : attend. Surely 'tis madness to deny thy God. Approach, observe this perished, gauze-like, leaf, Its delicate reticulation scan : Know that each filament's a precious duct. And was of life, and beauty, once the source ; With strict mechanical exactness framed. Its function, as its form, determinate. Who gave the thistle's feathered seed its plumes. That wing-like, waft it on each gentle breeze, To steril, yet, to it, congenial soils. Investing them with purple beauty, rife With fragrant treasure for the wild bee's store — Which else, with barren leprosy had blotched Those verdant hills, now bathed in morning dews. Whose every drop outvies Golconda's gem 1 Lo, one hangs glittering on yon blade of grass ; Spurn not that lucid trembler, but admire 27 Its glorious hues, and trace them to their source ; — The nice arrangement of its particles. Draw nigh ; — through microscopic lens inspect That simple drop's profound elaborateness — Most delicate, and wonderfully wrought — Is it a work of chance 1 It is a world — Replete with life, and love, and feud. IL< crowds Dart swift from verge to verge (their ocean-depths:) How nervous and minute each supple fin ! What made the film-like hinge on which it plays 1 AVhat hand, what eye, save God's, could fashion it ? Now — mark that spectre of the summer's eve. The elfin Bat : who wove its wondrous wing ; Endowed with sight-like sense, by which, at dusk. It shuns too near approach to thwarting bough. Or missile idly hurled ? Who, o'er the deep. The restless, pathless, ocean ('mid the rage Of the mad tempest,) doth the Swallow's flight. Through trackless realms — direct 1 Who bade the Bee Be wise ; his strict economy enjoined ; And taught him to construct his well-planned cell 1 The Ant, with recollection, who endowed ? See how liis devious path, 'midst tiny rocks, lie doth retrace discriminate, and sure. Blush sceptic — for thy blindness, blush ! — why ihou, With all thy cunning would'st be lost, 'mongsl such .\ multitudinous, chaotic mass. 28 Next, to thy kind, direct thy powers ; and first, The eye, most exquisite of organs, scan ; Did chance, or an all-wise intelligence. The obedient meshes of its iris knit ; Its magic-like adaptability To first-created light, impart — thereby At once capacitating it to admit. Or freely to reject, the flexile ray — Painting, with admirable minuteness there, The like of all things beautiful in heaven, — The sun, moon, stars ; and all bright things on earth 1 Dost thou still doubt 1 Then scrutinize thine hand, — How marvelously 'tis formed ; how sensitive — Of e'en a breath 'tis cognitive : — ay, more, 'Tis sight unto tlie blind ! — mysterious power — Conveying to the mind (in darkness else) Distinct perception of each lovely hue ! Look at thy general form; — examine well, Its complex, wonderful, anatomy ; And how, amidst the infinitude of parts. Thine ease hath been consulted : thou dost will. And lo, implicitly, thine eye, or hand. Obedience yields unto that silent power ! A scoffer still art thou 1 ask thine own heart Who quickened it, and bade it throb, untired, Till now, — the slave of such a thankless lord. 29 Still unconvinced ? Then come, and stretclx thy mind I'o mightier things, — the Ocean, — and I ask Thee, whence it sprang ; and why its tides obey The far-off, silent moon ? And why the earth, In lightning-speed, flings not the unstable flood In scattered worthlessness away ? — ^^ lie bade The plastic earth (eternal traveller,) Assume its form, and loco-rootive power ? And hung it in the circum-ambient air, — (High 'mongsl whose wondrous clouds. Nature hath fixed Her laboratory, — whence, at will, she flings Fierce lightnings, and hot thunderbolts, to earth ; Or, with nice chemical adjustment weighed. Diffuses thence, to all, the breath of life !) Fluid impalpable — material still, — So that obnoxious vapors may ascend. And leave unthankful man below, unliuri To breathe the purer stream 1 And next, I ask, Who, for the earth, as it in darkness rolled. Created light, — of matter, yet withal, So ex(|ULsitely subtile, that the rays (Borne on wings swifter than the lightning's flash !) From countless worlds shall penetrate the eye, Yet wound it not ; — and, in that sphere minute, Imprint the hemi«phere of glorious orbs, Distinctly accurate ] — \\ lio gave llie Sun, The God-like Sun, hi» everlasting liglit ; 30 Which he, irradiating, lends to this Dependant world? The moon, — pale, lovely moon, And all the myriads of bright stars, their light, Who gave ; and bade each in its orbit move Obedient, through all-enduring time. Amid the realms of space indefinite 1 Those realms of space, too, tell me, what are they ? Profound Incomprehensibility ! Transcending all the powers of human thought. Mind hath no scale comparative, by which To mete the confineless immensity. The earth's diameter — eight thousand miles — What is it t — Than the animalcule less, Compared with ocean, where it dwells — 'tis naught. Nay — think that thou hast reached yon scarce seen star ; And thence thou wilt discern the twinkling light Of one remoter still ; move on to that, And others yet appear : and thus, suppose Each moment of thy life were passed, and thou Could'st multiply thy days ten thousand times, — Thou obtain'st no scale — immeusurable still. The baseless, boundless, wonderfully blue deep. Mystery, inconceivably sublime ! Solution none admitting, save belief That One, all-wise, all-mighty, and all-good. Created first, illumined then with stars, And now sustains them in their glorious paths. 31 Tremble, that thou hast yet denied his power 1 Forego thy joyless creed ; believe with me, That now the mighty wonders of our God Are hid ; that death shall, whensoe'er he come, The mental veil withdraw, and shew to man The universe of lustrous stars — bright host Of happy worlds (all beautiful as gems Besprinkling heaven,) the offspring of His will : ITiat then, — angelic nature ours, the "Great, First Cause," will be revealed. All Mysteries made Appreciable then by us, we shall Ken the illimitable Infinitude — And there perceive (denied oMiJinite sense,) The soul of harmony pervading all. That then, the numberless departed souls. Shall (robed in light) appear ; offering, to God, Glad homage, — hymns of truth, and smiles of bliss. Such, my belief. Oh, that thou would'st thy bold, Infatuated, withering thought, discard! The flower would be more sweet, the morn more fresh, The sun more bright, the sky more blue ; the night, (The natural season for deep thought,) less dark : Life's cares, and wan disease, would blessings be. And Death, (annihilation's herald now,) The harbinger of everlasting bliss. 32 Dare then be wise. Dash down the subtle web, Thy pride of intellect hath round thee wove, Despised, into the dust. Believe in God ; Obey His will, — And then thy rescued soul Shall, on angelic pinions, wing its way To Heaven's bright realms of pure beatitude ! T. L. M. SONNET TO A ■WITHERED ROSE. Say, if thou can'st, thou pale and withered thing, What hath, thus early, crushed thy beauteous form ; The nipping blast 1 Or doth the insidious worm Lie festering — 'spite that dew-drop glittering 1 Like thine. Youth's sun illumed my happy spring ; Like thee, I revelled in its flushes warm ; Like thee, I braved full many a pelting storm ; Like thee, I perish 'neath a traitor's sting. But though thou'rt crushed, and all thy beauty gone. Thy fragrance liveth — and the dewy gem In liquid lustre, fondly clings to thee : So, though I'm blighted, wretched, and undone, Nature hath given me from her diadem. One fadeless, price-less, pearl, — Integrity. T. L. M. 33 THE SUMMER STORM. ■Waimx AFTEE A ni'RBlCANS IN KENT. It was one of those exquisite Evenings of June, When Mankind and Nature seem sweetly in tune : The wild Bee wantoned the flowers amonor. And hied to his hive with a merry song ; And then, to " take up the wondrous tale," Our ears were thrilled by the Nightingale ; The Gossamer wove his silvery thread. To fashion a robe for the Fairy's head ; For he knew his mistress was coming soon. On the earliest ray of the rising moon. The ]Moth had begun her evening flight, Attracted forth by the glowworm's light : And the worm on the ground, and the bat in the air. Seemed presage sure of a morning fair. We iqhaled the breath of a thousand flowers, We thought we could sit 'mid their sweets for hours ; But the harebell hung its head on its breast, Like a wearied one that hatli pined for rest ; All day it opened its eye to the Sun, But Nature now told it, its task was done. Oil Nature's book is the page to read ! The scholar's lore, or the churchman's creed, 34 Have never half such " high arguments" given. For mortal to look from this earth to Heaven ! ***** Ah ! who, that vi^itnessed that beautiful sight, And sank into slumbers svpeet and light, To dream again of that heavenly Eve, Could think he would only wake — to grieve 1 We wandered forth to the Gardens where. But yesterday all was so fresh and fair ; There was nought but a wreck of beauty there ! The storm had come, and the strong Southwest Had scattered its spoils o'er Nature's breast ; It had snapped the flower — had nipped the shoot, Had blasted the tree, and had blighted its fruit ; The cherry that hung with its rosy cheek. The apple, and pear, which from week to week The poor man had watched with hope and care I'o furnish the means for his winter fare, The hops he had cultured with time and toil. All, all, — are become the Southwind's spoil ! The Mariner sings when the night-winds come. As they waft his ship to his happy home ; But little he thinks how the Landsman wails. At the same wild wind which fills his sails ; And little he recks of the poor man's grief, O'er his fallen fruit — and his scattered sheaf. 35 Great God ! thy " deep and inscrutable ways," Are matter alike for prayer, as for praise j And may'st thou, this visitation strange, From this awful shape, into beauty change ; Tis THOU alone who can'st ' temper the storm,' Tis THOU alone, who can'st alter the form Of that which is dark to mortal eyes. And turn what evil seems, to " blessings in disguise !" F. F. D. WOMAN. Woman ! dear Woman, thou'rt the cause Of all our pleasure, all our pain, To thee we're bound by Nature's laws. To thee we're linked by Hope's bright chain. Then say — why dost thou often prove So great a blessing — or a curse ? Or why — beneath thy ardent love. Such fiendish passions proudly nurse ? But surely in my Mary's heart. No rankling core will e'er be found, Unless Love should witiidraw his dart. And send Hate tliere to fill tlie wound ! W. 1'. b 2 36 TO KITS' COTY HOUSE. Thou haughty relic of a bloody day ! Unchanged thou standest ; save the vest of grey, The cold, damp, mouldering hand of Time — hath thrown Around thee, — and that marks thee for his own. I've passed thee oft ; — when morning's radiant flush Hath lit thy brow, and when the mellower blush Of eve hath gilded it ; and when the beam Of the lone, pallid moon, with fitful gleam Hath lent thee all her witchery ; and then. As my soul captive, wildering Fancy led. Wrapt in that spell-bound hour, my heart hath said, " Oh ! that my grave were thus — 'mid hill and glen. Trophy of triumph over tyrant men !" Lo ! He — ^within thy dark and narrow cell. Who nobly for his country fought and fell. Whose nervous arm dealt all around him — death j Lies cold, lone, crumbling, marrowless, beneath. Rest, rest thee there, in peace, thou warrior brave. Albeit the widow's tears o'er thee were shed ; And the lone orphan, wailing, sought thee dead : Rest thee, thou chieftain of the lonely grave ! I've marked thee — too, when tempest-cloud hath flung Its pall-like shadows o'er thee : when the crash 37 Of warring storms hath burst ; and when the flash, The hissing, reckless flash, hath o'er thee passed ; When the hoarse thunder's rocking peal hath rung, And shattered towers, that, else, might ages last j Yet harmed not thee. When bellowing wind and flood Have desolated hill and vale, and bent Tliose gnarled and everlasting yews to earth. E'en like a feathery willow ; — Thou hast stood Amid the raving storm — unmoved, and lent Thy smile of calm defiance — giant mirth — Unto the trembling, weeping hills. 'Tis well, He whom thou shieldest, smiled on wrath — as fell. But fled is now that cloud of storm and blast. And gentler skies are weeping o'er the past. In tearful beauty o'er that grave below. And lo, as in the kindling beam they glow, Around the tomb a wreath-like zone they throw : O, sure 'tis Pity smiling through her grief. Hallowing thy lone tomb, thou warrior chief; Yes 'tis — 'tis thus — O well may gentle skies. Weep o'er the grave where Freedom's champion lies. T. L. M. 38 DESCRIPTIVE ACCOUNT OF THE ROMAN BATHS, DISCOVERED AT BIGNOR, SUSSEX, IN 1815. The field in which this important discovery was made, lies in the valley under Bignor Hill, five or six miles from Arundel, Sussex, and about a quarter of a mile from the Roman Road, described in the Iter of Richard of Cirencester, which lies nearly in a direct line from the summit of Bignor Hill, lying between Arundel and Pet- worth, to Chichester ; and it is the opinion of a learned Antiquary, that Bignor, was the Roman station designated in the Iter, by the words — " Ad Decimum" (i, e.) at the tenth milestone ; a description which nearly corresponds with its actual distance from Chichester, the Roman Regnum. The portion of the bath, which is discovered, is a beautiful tessalated pavement of Mosaic work, in a high state of preservation. In the centre of a circle, fourteen feet in diameter, bordered with two concentric lines, and a twisted scroll between them, formed by black, white, grey, and red cubes, is an hexagonal vapour bath, with steps down to it, four feet wide from each angle to its opposite, in the centre of which is a leaden pipe or caliduct. — The bath is formed of free stone and the surrounding pavement of cubes of pottery, and a semi-diaphanous glass. This large circle is divided round by hexagonal compartments of a similar size, bounded with a scroll border, and having without that, another of rectangular fret work. In the centre of each of these appears a Bacchante with floating drapery, executed in a bold style, — the drawing of which is extremely correct ; the colours are fresh, and the figures have elegance, grace, and variety. The large circle is 39 bounded by a square of black lines, and the spandrels are fitted with the vase or amphora of Bacchus and decorated with vine leaves ; and to the east are the remains of what evidently went all round it, a large external border of rectangular frets. At the north end is a smaller circle of eight feet in diameter, bounded with three inch borderings of a fret, and intertwined radii of black and wiiite cubes. In the centre is a well executed eagle flying off with Ganymede, a most graceful floating form, with his Phrygian cap, crook, and Grecian sandals. At about fifty yards from this is a small, well executed, dolphin, and the initials of T. R. Adjoining these letters is a female figure, apparently intended to represent Winter, — as she is covered to tlie chin with thick clothing, and holds in her hand a leafless branch. These discoveries are not much more than fifteen or sixteen inches below the surface of the earth, the whole of which abounds in frag- ments of Roman pottery, stones and plaisters ; and from tiie remains of a capital, probably of one of the columns of the superstructure, it is conjectured to have been executed in the declining times of the Roman Empire, being a compound debasement, of the Roman Doric, of cimae reverse in the abacus, and a colarino nearly two thirds of diameter below it. The Rev. Mr. Douglas, an anti(juary of deserved celebrity, conjectures it to have been the remains of a villa of a Roman Praetor, who had the care of tiie sea-coast about the time of Theodosius, A. D. 397. A particular account of this Roman \ ilia has been published in the eighteenth volume of the Archaclogia, written by J. Lysons, EsI«TIK XTTER IIITINC UEAIID "wEBZH'S LAST WiLTt. Twas eve : the sun was setting in the west. The glorious west ! night's gorgeous vestibule Of clouds (like mountains rimmed with gold, And in wild grandeur piled,) shrank blushing back. To admit the day-God through, wlio, lingering, seemed Reluctantly to bid the world good night. His flashes still through wandering clouds shot forth. And blazed in crimson splendor o'er the skies. The mountain-summit, wood, and vale, and lake, — Which seemed a living sea of liquid fire : Through all dyes changing, most miraculous. It faded to the soft, grey, sober hue Of pearly twilight — (like a gentle tone. Or sob of melancholy after mirth) — Twin-born with dewy sighs ; in which, at eve, Young zephyr loves to dip his wanton wing, And scatter balm-drops o'er each fainting flower. That, like an infant weary of the day, Furls its tired leaves and slumbers through the night. As twilight faded, star by star shone out, (Like sweet thoughts glancing through affliction's gloom, Or gentle feelings o'er the couch of death. Given in hope's bright chalice to the soul,^ 42 One star there was more luminous than all, — Beautiful star ! empyreal, pale thou shon'st, — So tremulous 'mid night's empurpled vault, As if afraid of the sweet light thou shed'st. So, timid Charity doth shrink abashed. Yet still doth beam amidst a world of crime. The brightest gem on Glory's blazoned vest ! The star-beams trembled on the aspen leaf. And fell upon the stream that murmured by, To light the ripples to their rushy bed. Long time I watched their devious course, and thought Mysterious things ; which star-light, streams, and flowers, Pale, perished flowers, are wont to shadow out In melancholy minds. But slumber came, Stealing on noiseless wing, and sealed mine eyes ; Oh ! witching sleep ! thou balm for every wound. Thou, only thou, can'st bid the wretched smile. The festering sores of wounded pride can'st heal, Or can'st the homeless, joyless beggar wrap In peace, as calm as e'en a baby-dream : All pangs, save conscience, do succumb to thee — Her whisper's echoed through a crushed world's din. And racks the guilty wretch, though couched on down! Sweet handmaiden of Mercy, art thou Sleep ! Then Pity hovers o'er the dreaming wretch. Winning liis sorrows through a smile away. 43 Even from tortures's ruthless grasp. Smile on Thou hapless dreamer, — smile, 'tb hut a dream — A vain, intangible, most empty, dream, — The morn shall lash thee to tlie rack again. But, as I said, came sleep, with silken chain, And led me to her couch : I dreamed, — my dream Came seraph-borne ; methought I was in heaven, And wing to wing with thee, loved ]\Iary, placed ; We hymned our praises to Almighty God. And there was great, and deep rejoicing there : — A soul had winged its way from the frail earth. Up to the bosom of its God. It came To heaven's bright threshold, when a shout From the angelic host proclaimed it come ; Jleek, trembling, in all lowliness it came. And sued for mercy at the Throne of Grace ; Then shrank, abashed at its great daring, back, — Like untold thoughts, into itself. Dread fear, And wondrous awe, and dark misgiving came. And all the withering agonies of doubt, Clung like a serpent round it ; and the weight, The mountain-weight, of coascience, strove to crush Into anniliilation, that meek soul ; But whicli the Angels on their wings sustained, To wait the Fiat of the King of Kings. As Justice sternly drew iiis sword of flame, 44 Meek Mercy sued, and " dew-eyed Pity" wept, While Truth, arrayed in spotless vest, stood forth. The spirit, fluttering like a wounded bird. In prayer, and doubt, and fear and trembling, lay — Yet not forsook by Hope : tearful, yet bright, 'Twas like a rainbow on a troubled cloud. The Almighty smiled, — smiled all the heavenly host ; Heaven's farthest realms were gemmed with Angels' smiles. As they did bid that lowly spirit come. And join the myriads of forgiven souls. Now clothed in light, too bright for mortal eyes. And breathing bliss, and beaming seraph joy. It flew, a heaven-born spirit, to its God : While choral harps, and voices poured in prayer Profound thanksgiving to the One, sole Lord, — As Angels welcomed Weber to their sphere ; And the same spirit that inspired his mind To seek his God through melody's sweet sigh. Had borne those aspirations up to heaven, — And lo, that strain, which he, on earth had breathed. Was chaunted there by the angelic choir. 'Twas prayer itself in melody enshrined ! Such was my dream. The shout, as I had dreamed. Of the adoring Angels, broke the spell. And I to earth's realities awoke : But, oh ! celestial was the vision still — Awake, e'en as in sleep : Thou, dearest, thou, Wert o'er me bending (like a seraph's smile From heaven descending on sweet ISIercy's beam,) Melting in tears unto thy Harp's lorn wail — For thou did'st hjnnn poor Weber's dying prayer ! And I did weep, to hear that piteous strain. Ah, wherefore weep? — Oh, tell me, who shall wake 'Mid such delicious melody unmoved ? Flow on, in sweet comminglement, ye tears, With my loved sister's — and I will not blush — Tis mortal's tribute to the throne of thrones — Tis feeling's echo to the song of Gods !" T. L. M. 46 TO A LADY WITH A ROSE TREE. 'Tis fabled in the Eastern tale. That the pure Rose will all night long, Hang listening to the Nightingale, And echo back her sigh, — for song. So shall this Flower I give to thee. If blest with thy approving choice, Breathe out a sigh of extacy In answer to thy sweeter voice. Could I but give that flower a tongue, I'd bid it tell, in words of love, How thou hast o'er its blossoms hung. Like Venus o'er her favorite dove : — I'd ask it to give back the kiss That soon shall press it from thy lip. And thus I'd taste a double bliss, And double nectar, raptured, sip. O what a luxury, to lie So near that fairy form of thine: To feel the magic of thine eye. And thus become, like thee, divine ! 47 The Persian lover learns to cull His nosegay — every flower a word ; And thus presents a beautiful, And secret, vow, — unseen — unheard. Be thou to me — as that to hiin, As secret, as sincere, as sure ; And never could bright Seraphim, Breathe vows more fond, more true, more pure : Go happy flower — bid Her believe, That thou art the sincerest token. Of love which never can deceive, Of words which never could be spoken. ]'. F. D. 48 AN ADDRESS TO AN INCONSTANT. Once fair, once dear, as life to me ; So fair, the world seemed made for thee. So dear, methought that I could see Whole years of happiness to be. Vain were those thoughts, they've passed away. E'en like the sunshine of a day. I loved thee, and I thought thee chaste. As dews that from the heavens fall ; In thee my life, my soul, was placed, But thou proved'st false, and ruined all. Then vain such thoughts — they pass away. E'en like the sunshine of a day. I cursed thee, and thy very name ; But Oh, thou need'st not such a doom — For, in thy heart must burn a flame. That ne'er will cease, but in the tomb : And Hope^'en Hope, now turns away. Blighting the sunshine of thy day. S. P. 49 I UK YOUXG SAIl.OU. See'st tliou yonder rosy boy • lie has launched liis tiny boat; How his eyes o'erflow witli joy, As he sees his vessel float. Now he leans upon his hand, And he blows a little gale; And the vessel leaves the land, As he fills its snow-white sail. It has reached yon flowery spot, And it lingers fondly there, Now amongst Forget-me-not, Now 'midst water-lilies fair. But the flowers it now forsakes, And adown the stream doth glide ; While that boy delighted takes His way by the river's side. How exultingly he stands, As mid-stream his wherry swimst ; How he claps his little hands. As o'er ripple-waves she skims. K 50 Now before tlie breeze she flies. And there's laughter on his lip ; And now tears are in his eyes. As he sees her white sails dip. Lo, to tiny rocks she speeds, Where the noisy ripples foam, As they steal through murmuring reeds, To yon lake — their quiet home. See, she's dashed upon the rocks, And no helping hand to save, — She must yield to those rude shocks, — Ah ! that fall will be her grave ! 'Mid those eddies she is whirled, And their spray beats o'er her deck ; See — she fills — and now is hurled On the rocks, a shattered wreck! Pretty Child, alas for thee! Thou wilt break thy little heart ; It is dreadful, thus to be — From thy vessel— forced to part. Oh, it well may make thee weep. Thus to see thy treasure wrecked, 'Mid those surging eddies deep — But, what else could'st thou expect? 51 (ill — an>l seek tliy liappy home, 'Tis a haven still for thee; And a brighter day shall come, Which will fill tliy heart with glee. Thy fond blether will protect, And watrli o'er tiiee, night and day ; And thine erring mind direct. If perchance it go astray. A most fearful voyage is life, \\ itli wild passion at the helm ! With dread shoal.s and breakers rife. Which tlie vessel oft o'erwhelni. <^)h ! for thee and thine 'twere well. As thou ploughe'-t life's rough wave, If thou should'>t survive the swell, \Vhere too many meet a grave. But, away, forebodings dark ! I^t thy compass \ irtuc be — Then, lion- frail Hoe'er thv bark, 'I'hou shall safely stem the sea. And be Truth thy guiding star, He thy course integrity — I hen, thy voyage, however far, I'o the Realms of Bliss shall be. K 2 I. I.. .\1. AN ANAGRAiMMATIC, ALLITERATIVE, QUADRUPLE ACROSTIC* €W i¥mt, tfioiigf) tnilg tasftful to tl^f tf)ongfj t. ^ath this intent : — to celebrate the Amic t." Illume my muse, Apollo ! while I thu g S»ummon in fancy, an "Amici" feas t, Co be here holden instantly ; theret fl^ast thou kind reader been invited, who til 35ach member welcomes as a worthy gues t. ^ark well their lively converse ! yet to trut 'ff iEach one adhereth strictly, — so that yo u SThis fact may learn therefrom — that faithful friend 6 l^ave noble souls, and never palm decei t ®n one another, under any pie a. 5ftnrivalled is their brilliant table tal ]fe! ® raced with sound sense, and friendly reparte $ fl^appily interwoven — 'tis a trea t, ®hat much conduceth to the general mirt f}, Reflect upon the beauteous turn of though t ?ftnfolded in the Amici poems ! whic f^ iiay open for perusal ; M* * * * * t ther p, ITou view most eloquent in Nature's prais e ; Cruly deducing, from her laws throughou t, ^ Deity omniscient rules the eart f). Sihould'st thou a gay and joyous muse prefe r. 53 Kindling with amorous concuptions ; 1 ' ^**** D***y's cheerful poetry awaiis yo u. Unstudied wit, with soul inspiiing son g, itighten the passing moments ; and in trut (), SThis club will bear comparison witli tha t ©riginally formed by "Reynolds" wit f) {The Lexicographer, and others, wh o J^eld social weekly meetings, such as yo \\ icnjoy willi these "Aniici," whom I briu g Chus truthfully before you. 3Iay they eac f) ll^ave all the happiness they themselves entrea t, ©r that their friends can wish on their behal f ; I4niiuxed with auglit unpleasant; and if tho ti (Sraciously should'st inquire, whose honest zea I pfjath led tiiee througli their Noctes] I'll revea I — Cis Com I tf)ug tafertf) tfjrr tfjiougf)— tfjougfitfiillii. J', i'. NOTL, " Tlic fimt :iiiil la-l lilies of tlii) ftociii fmni ilic Viror-lii, «lii' li in4y l»clwii ]^inc!< arc nnngrimmiilic. SONG.— TIME. (.b'et to Music by the Author,) Oh wliat have we, to do with thee, Time, Time, Time ] We've no fixed hour — for jollity. Time, Time, Time. Come, come, the magic bowl is placed, 'Tis now, the signal's given. And from this moment, earth's eftaced. And all becomes, becomes a heaven. Chorus. Then what have we &c. The man that ne'er a slave would be, 'lime. Time, Time, Must ever cease to care for thee Time, Tune, Time. Let those, who ne'er our nectar sip. Talk of thee Time, and slumber ; Eut if our goblet met their lip, 'i'hey'd gladly j6in our number. Then what have we &c. Go , go, we never can agree. Time, Time, Time, While you oppose our liberty. Time, Time, Time. Vou hold a glass of sand, they say, And count each grain that passes ; Count them you will, and count, — you may. Hut we'll ne'er count our glasses 'Ilien what have we &c. Take up tliy scythe, thy glass, and flee, lime. Time, Time, And hide thee in the deep, deep sea. Time, Time, Time. We'll pass tlie hours with happiness. Singing catch, and singing glee ; Xor, for Old Time, a jot the less We'll happy be, we'll happy be ; 'I'lien what have we iicc. s. r IMPROMPTU. Fanny, no longer think, I pray, 'I'hat I shall take thy ".Nays" for "Nay," Two faithful friends the words gainsay, ■J'hine Eyes assure me, "Nay" means "Ay." J. B. 5b' THE BROKEN ^'0\V, Oh ! Lady, think not lightly thou Of me, that I have broke the vow I made to thee : — I swear by Heaven, In very honesty 'twas given ! Ah! wherefore given"? — Thy lips, dear Maid, 'Twas bade me make it — I obeyed, — Keluctantly, in sooth, for I Saw the dark pen of Destiny Blot out my name : I saw it fade. Like a dead leaf, upon her scroll, — As one unworthy Heaven : yet then. E'en then, I nerved my trembling soul To scorn the threat, and said, — Amen. I left thee, and no tear was shed, — Perchance a smile passed o'er my brow : Thus thunder-clouds have smiled ere now, In deathful glory, and then burst. I could not weep, but my heart bled In deep, unutterable woe ; Mute wretchedness, — surpassing shew, — Conscious — how utterly 'twas cursed. 1 left thcc, — not in cahu, — but rushed 57 la maddemug agouy ; — my check. My burning cheek, — all fever-flushed, My lip — curbed thouglits it durst not speak ; And then, 1 flung me on tlie sod. In very recklessness. O ! God — Thou know'st, how bitterly I wept: My heart, that, like a dam had kept Its swelling sorrows pent, — o'er-fraugiit — Xow burst ; and the fierce torrent tore Its very pulse-strings from the core. And left it a lone, shattered, wreck. Speechless I stood, nor gazed on aught Of earth, or Heaven. At length, tears came; They brought not Peace — frail alien, back, — Nor e'en assuaged one burning thougiit, — Alas — they only added shame To an already darkened name ! Tlius was 1 wretched. Lady, now Hear why 1 broke that hapless vow : I loved, — and could not brook the jest Of ribald man ; but loved the wood. For there, tlie burthen of my breast I could pour out in solitude. Thou know'st the rest. In my despair, I .-aw tlice, like a sunbeam tlierc; A fljisli of joy, so ylittcrin;,' — 58 Like glancing light from Halcyon's wing ! Angel of peace ! — a smile still played, Amid the blushes on thy cheek, — Like sunlight that till eve hath stayed, In dalliance on the rose's breast. Then did I feel my vow was weak ; I felt how much I had been blessed j The memories of the blighted past, Came like an echo, from the blast And storm-cleft rock, — whose frozen sigh, As passing o'er some sleeping lake, (Calm mirror of bright worlds on high!) Doth all its dreamy slumbers wake ; And, to a curdling tremor chills Its slumbering bosom — thought on thought Came crowding o'er me. Time had wrought, And wrapped his vest of many ills • Around me ; and within my power, Nature now flung her priceless dower, — Thine own sweet self! — Yet, was forbid My heart the utterance of its pangs: I trembling paused — (Heaven knows I did,) And groaned, and writhed within the fangs Of torturing indecision : then Came Hope, — with magic wand again. — The same sweet lips that bade me make, . Methouglit, now sweetly bade me break, 53 That vow, — whicli kept, had crushed to llilu^llt, The sum of every blissful thought. 'Twas Fancy perhaps — perhaps Vanity — But nay, a smile did light thine eye. And did'st thou mock me then ! I know Thou could'st not — Love ! Thine heart is true ; Feeling hath fled a callous world, And found a g;enial welcome there ! I, desolate, and tempesl-hurled. Flung oft' my burden, and did dare 'I'he peril of thy frown : — I placed That, my dark future, (dreary waste!) And its worse sequel, withering guile, In the same balance 'gainst thy smile — They were as nothing — a mere dream ; Opposed to one brief moment passed \Vitl\ thee, — although it were the last. Thou know'st I love, — and I did deem Thou would'st forgive, and might'st relent, — And cancel my long banishment. ■J hen Lady, bind me not again In vows, — that like a chain of fire, Coasume my withered heart with pain ; Nay, bid not every hope expire ; Let merry hang her diadem Of sunny smiles upon thy brow, 60 And let me warm my soul in them. For it is faint, and frozen, now. Thus blest, all earthly wrong were light, — I'd smile at pain, and care, and blight ; As the fearless Peterel plumes his wing, Breasting in scorn the bounding wave, Whose crest the winds ride bellowing, Fiend-like, over the seaman's grave : And, fearful vision though it be, The future, dim Eternity, Unveiled, should crowd upon mine eye Unmoved — unwept — without one sigh For mercy : nay, in calm, I could Look on the dark infinitude Of agony, see fade away The remnant of life's weary day. In dark, inscrutably deep, — night. Then Lady, fling not cold disdain Upon thy lover's prayer — do smile. And sun him with those orbs', sweet light 1 'Twould win him back from grief— nay, guile- To the still bowers of Peace again. Then would I bathe my lips in bliss, As wont, in thy delicious kiss ; And dwell in the sweet paradise Of thy loved bosom's precious sighs! ()1 III one blessoJ trance, our souls slionld lie, lill wakened to Eteiiiitv. I-ike happy birds, that joyously Pour out their souls in melody, — Sweet carols ! to the god of day ; So should our glad lives pass away, inimitably blest : tlicn, O forgive, And smile again — and let me live. T. L. .\r. eptgra:\i. "Worth makes the Man, the want of it The Fellow" — so the Bard hath writ — Thus argue. Sons of ^lamnion, when In scrutinizing other Men, Should there, by chance, some one appear. Of humbler caste — or higher sphere — They ask, above all things on Earth, \ol "uhat Is he" but "what's the fethw north ! " F. F. f). 62 AN INVITATION TO AN AUTUMN WALK. Come fortli with me, whoe'er will rove, By Medway's banks, through Sandling's grove ; Come forth whoever loves to look On tower, and tree, on stream, and sky, On the bright leaves of Nature's book, On her last flowers before they die ; Ere Winter's snowy veil shall fall. Making a brumal blank of all ; Like a pure page of vestal white. On which God's hand hath yet to write, Resting until the vernal Sun, Bring forth its beauties, one by one, And the young, lovely, laughing. Spring, — Shall tint them with her colouring. So have I known, invisibly. Some letters traced to meet the eye ; Some letters which young Love has writ For one dear eye, and only it — Lie dormant in that sheet of white ; Yet, held a moment to the flame. The words of love, the dear one's name. At once start forth to life and light. 63 Come forth — albeit we lose tlie cliann. Of flowery banks, ami hedge-rows warm, Of the wild hum of busy Bees, Of the (Jrove's choral harmonies. Of daisied mead, and wooded delJ, Of the sweet strain of Philomel, Yet Nature — though we loved her less — Has something still of loveliness; There's beauty in the fading trees. There's wisdom in the whispering breeze ; Though silent is the Nightingale, The Robin, he, takes up the tale. And unto ears that love to hear. To hearts that fancy fairy things. In plaintive prelude, sweetly sings, The requiem of the dying Year Behold, yon monarch of the wood. The denizen of solitude ! Shaking aside, the leafy dress. The summer garments Nature gave him ; As if in very wantonness. He bared his bosom to the storm. Nor deigned to wear about his form, A single vestment, — to enslave liim. 'J'hus Men, witli " Hearts of oak," we see, The strongest in adversity ; 64 Standing with folded arms, though all Attack their fame, attempt their fall : And yet, when Fortune shed her rays Around their earlier, happier, days. They basked as blithely in the sun, As joyously as any one ; Nor learned they — how to sneer and scoff, Until their summer friends fell off ! Behold yon Elm, how bright it gleams Amid the sun's departing beams ; Its golden leaves are fading fast. Yet keep their beauty to the last ; Its yellow mantle now put on. Looks lovelier than the green one gone ; Chameleon-like, its changeful hue. Chequers the scene, and gilds it too, And sheds, as dying Dolphins do, A thousand varied tints, that play Around it, emblems of decay. As songs foretell the swan's decline. So, do that old Elm's beauties shine, So, sanctify his latter day. Thus witness we some good old man, Sink to the grave at life's last span ; Philosophy has filled his mind. Religion has his heart refined. 65 And taught him, through this life, to do To all, as he'd be done unto ; And thus at his departing hour. His voyage o'er — his duty done — Xo fears assail — no tempests lour — But virtue, — like that setting sun, Gladdens and gilds the hour he dies, And lights his spirit to the skies ! Behold yon Ivy — twines it not Like some fair maiden's happy lot. Embracing her beloved one. Rather than live and die alone ; And trusting to his stronger form, To shield and shelter her from harm ? While, as she throws her arms round his, In the sweet consciousness of bliss: We feel what woman's love can do. Blessing, and beautifying too. So is it, wheresoe'er we look. On the broad page of Nature's book — Yon crumpled leaf — in every fold A Btory of its fate is told ; Its infant bud — its full-grown form, Affording shade when days were warm. And shelter from the sudden storm, — r 66 Are like youth's bud — and manhood's flower-— Its earlier, and its later hour ; And then like Man in good old age. Bending beneath the tempest's rage. Which leaves it, as we see it now. The emblem of his wrinkled brow. To contemplation's mind and eye, Such are the charms that never die ; Such are the mysteries revealed. Although the book be closed, and sealed ; Such, when the icy chains begin To bind the earth, and the blue sky Becomes a fleecy canopy. Are the bright stores — we have within ! F. F. D. 67 TO ox lizn DIHTIIDAT. Revolving years, again have brought, The time we all rejoice to see ; And may each joy attend, that ought. The day of thy nativity ! As calm the Sun his course pursues, IMay thine as calm, and joyous, be ; And e'er may shine his brightest hues. On days of thy nativity : May all, we wish on earth, be thine, And, would that I could live to see. The fairest prospects o'er thee shine. Each day of thy nativity : Yes ! I do wish thee all, that e'er Was given to good, and fair, like thee,- Incrcase of pleasures every year, On days of thy nativity. J. B. 60 THE FLY-ORCHIS. Lines on a Fly. orchis foimd on a brow of the Boxley hills, a little aboveKil's Coty house — the supposed tomb of Catigern. This Very curious and beautiful flower, which is rarely to be met with except in bleak and exposed situations, lias hitherto baffled nearly every attempt to cultivate it. Sweet Flower ! Of all that bloom by hill or glen Through smiling Kent, there's none I love like thee ; For thou'rt the truest type of true-born men — Hardy, unbought, untameable, and free. Thy birth-place is the hill-top, bleak and wild. Which aye has been the refuge of the brave From tyrant malice ; thoubright Freedom's child Wilt never bloom — like gaudier flowers — a slave. The North wind nurtures thee — as erst it braced T he Patriot's heart, and nerved his ready hand To grapple with the spoiler who had traced In blood — the chart of slavery o'er his land. And ever — as it leaves thee — dost thou turn Thy blossom towards the grave of one who died, Freeing himself from thrall, — poor Catigern ; Whose rude tomb still adorns thy bare hill side. 'Twould seem as if kind Nature — from the germ Of Liberty that warmed his glowing breast. Had raised thee, — that, while all else fed the worm, His emblem flower might mark his place of rest. 69 Dear emblem ! \\'lio would not embrace his doom With ardour, — it 'twere due at Freedom's shrine ; And share his glorious, time-defying tomb. His fame undying ? Would it could be mine ! But since no sacritice of mine can save The birth-rights of a race that's trained to cower, I'd joy to fill, like him, a mountain grave — I'd joy to live again — a mountain flower. G. W. ECHO TO AX ARTIST. IWITATXD FROU AU90NIU9 KPIGRAM XXI. What, Painter ! would thy pencil dare To paint my charms to mortal eye? I, who am child of voice, and air. And mother of inanity! Vet with that voice, no mind I bear. No tongue to speak — no heart to sigh ; — From the untrodden mountain's side, From distant tower, and troubled stream, I'm here — and there — and every where — Ihat sounds can reach, or winds can ride, And thence, to mortal ears I glide; — And would'st thou paint me? — paint a dream! I'. V. D. 70 THE IGUANODON. AN ACCOUNT OF THE FOSSIL REMAINS OF AN IGUANODON, DISCOVEUED IN A QUARRY OF SHANKLIN SAND NEAR MAIDS! ONE, BY MH. W. H. BENSTED. In February 1834, a portion of one of the lowermost strata in the above quarry, having been blasted, a quantity of some remarkable substance, resembling petrified wood, was observed in the stone. Upon inspecting a large fragment which had been reserved for me, I at once, perceived, that it w-as a fossil bone belonging to an animal of great magnitude. I immediately searched for the other portions and succeeded in finding many more fragments, some of which had been scattered and blown by the gunpoveder to a considerable distance. I now felt that I had an object of great interest, and my gratification was much increased, as by degrees, I found myself enabled to fit the numerous fragments together. I erected a temporary shed over them and with mallet and chisel, cleared away the surrounding stone ; following the outline of the bone till I had brought to view portions of the skeleton of an extraordinary animal, which had been buried in the bowels of the earth probably in the earliest ages of its existence. From the pleasure which I felt in this discovery, I can well imagine what must have been the feelings of Belzoni ; when, bringing forth from their dark tomb the mummy, or richly wrought sarcophagus. He, by decypher- ing their hieroglyphical characters, revealed to us, previously un- known particulars, of the past deeds of Kings and mighty conquer- 71 ors, who have long since bowed their heads to dust and have done homage to Death, the conqueror of all. The bones which I shall presently de>crlbe, were excavated from a sepulchre of rock, and, respecting their entombment, all would have been darkness and mystery, but for hieroglyphics written in the fast-bound characters of Nature's records ; records that have had successive creations for epochs ; epochs, that tell of the wrecks, changes, creations, and destruction of myriads of animated beings, which lived upon the earth before it was adapted to support the animals which now inhabit it. The era when reptiles of enormous size inhabited our planet, and the whole system of nature diftered from the present, has been most appropriately designated by Cuvier " The age of reptiles;" and of the existence of these creatures there can be no more doubt, than there can be, when at the present day we see the print of a man's foot in the sand, — that man must have been there. The formation or deposit in which these remains were discovered is provincially called " Kentish-rag," but by Geologists Green-sand, from many particles of a green substance being found in it ; or Shanklin-sand, from its occurring in large masses at Shanklin in the Isle of Wight. It is a formation of considerable importance in Kent, extending to Folkstonc in an Easterly, and into Surry in a Westerly, direction, and has long been celebrated for the variety and beauty of its fossil remains. Shells of the following genera have been met with in this quarry ; Ammonilei, llainiUi, and SautUi, Terebrutula, Cryphaea and Peclen, 72 all of which are of common occurrence, together with the usual shells of the formation 3 and vegetable impressions, and fossil wood, are very abundant ; the latter perforated by Lithodomi or boring shells. A large conical striated tooth assigned by Professor Buckland to the gigantic Plesiosaurns ; Rhomboidal scales of a fish allied to the Lepisosteus or Pike ; teeth of the Squalus Mustelus or Shark ; and small palatal teeth of a fish resembling the Ray, with a Radi or dorsal defence of a fish of the Silurus species have been here dis- covered. Bones of SaiMian type, but too imperfect to decide upon, have also been met with. A new and interesting Zoophite, Alcyonia Monilia, has been found, a restored figure of which leads to the con- clusion, that the cylindrical stem had strips of attachment to the sands upon which it grew, and that, from the bulbs which occur in different parts of the stem, it had the power of projecting long beaded processes, — ending in attenuated threads — through the means of which it probably obtained sustenance. The beds of diluvium, covering and filling the faults and dislocations, contain the bones of the horse, deer, and elephant, with the remains of Mammalia that were probably buried at the last convulsion, all of which are of great interest to the Geologist, but of trivial importance when compared to the discovery of the bones of an Iguanodon in a * formation decidedly marine. To the great research and superior acquirements of Dr. Gideon Mantell, of Brighton, we are indebted for the first knowledge of this extraordinary creature. In his works upon Geology, we are informed that the Iguanodon was an herbivorous reptile, somewhat resembling the recent Iguana in general figure, and also in the 73 structure of its teeth. Another curious resemblance is that between the osseous conical horn of the Iguana cornuta, of St. Doniintro, and a fossil horn of the Iguanodon, discovered in Tilgate Forest, by that gentleman. The enormous magnitude, however, of some fossil bones of an Iguanodon found in the Ilastings-sand formation almost sets comparison at defiance. The recent Igua)m has seldom exceed- ed four or five feet in length ; whereas the bones of the Iguanodon lead us to suppose that there were individuals of tiiat species one hundred feet in length. The peculiar structure and adaptation of their teeth, leave no doubt upon the mind of the comparative anatomist that the Iguanodon was herbivorous. With the detached bones of this creature, were embedded the fossil remains of palms and arborescent ferns, some of which had jjrobably attained the height of thirty or forty feet, and doubtless, constituted the food upon which this monster of an ancient world subsisted. The whole economy of its structure was adapted to this purpose ; and the following observations of I^r. ^Vlantell on the subject, are so conclusive that I beg to direct the reader's attention to them, " The recent Iguana, as is well known, lives chiefly upon vege- tables, and is furnished with long slender toes, by which it is enabled to climb trees with great facility, in search of food ; but no tree could have borne tiie weight of the colossal Iguanodon, its habitation and movements must have been confined to the land and water; it is also manifest that its enormous bulk would require to be sup- ported by feet of a corresjwnding solidity ; accordingly we find that the hind feet, as in the Hippopotamus, Rhinocerous, and other large 74 Mammalia were composed of strong, short, massy bones ; and furnished with claws, not hooked, as in the Iguana, but compressed, as in the land Tortoises ; the feet thus formed a massy base for the support of the enormous leg and thigh bones. But in the hands, or fore feet of the /guanotfon the bones are analogous to those of the fingers of the Iguana, long, slender, flexible, and armed with curved claw-bones, the exact counterpart of the nail bones, of the recent animal ; thus forming a prehensile instrument, to seize and tear to pieces, the palms and arborescent ferns, and dragon's blood plants, which constituted the food of the original. Here we have another beautiful example of that admirable adap- tation of structure, to the necessities and conditions of every form of existence, which is alike manifest whether our investigations be directed to the beings which exist around us, or to the structure of those which have lived and died and passed away, ere man, and the animals which are his contemporaries, were called into existence." Reflecting upon these extraordinary facts, may we not enquire, with the illustrious Cuvier, " At tohat period was it, and under what circumstances, that turtles and gigantic lizards lived in our climate, and were shaded by forests of y alms, and arborescent ferns." It is a very natural question to ask, " how came the bones of an animal which fed exclusively upon vegetable food in a marine deposit, surrounded with sea shells and the remains of fish which lived in the sea 1" The Iguanodon could find no sustenance there ! Geologists are now agreed that the Wealden, of which the rag-stone constitutes a part, was the delta of a mighty river, and it is supposed that the carcass of the Iguanodon floated upon the surface of that river, and was carried by its currents into the ocean ; and that de- composition at length caused the separation of tlie flesli from the bones, which sunk to tlie bottom. The same currents brought down fragments of wood, tlie worn angles of which testify to the action of drifting waters ; and pebbles, shells, wood, and bones are thus buried together. We have the same causes in full activity at the present time. The deltas of our rivers contain the remains of animals now existing, whose bones are buried in the sand and mud brought down from hills by streams, and carried onwards towards the sea, by the tides and currents. Thus the Nile, Kiger, and Ganges, envelope the skeletons of Hippopotami, Turtles, and Crocodiles j our own rivers those of Man and the other Mammalia living upon their banks, together with shells, wood 6cc, Thus we may see, every day, the same causes in operation which enveloped the bones of the Iguanodon in what is now solid rock, at a time too remote for conjecture. The science of Geology, which explains these operations, is of tlie highest interest ; not only on account of the vast fields which it pre- sents to the research of tiie enquirer, but also f jr its simplicity. If foFsil wood b found embedded in the rock, we know that dry land must have existed and produced it ; if bones are discovered, the comparative anatomist will be able, by analogy, to gain a knowledge of the whole skeleton and habits of an animal ; although it may never have been seen alive by man. 76 But other agencies have affected the earth's surface. Let the imagination endeavour to picture the tremendous scene, when the mighty Mont Blanc, with terrific roarings, burst through the crust of the earth, and shattering rocks of hardest granite, hurled moun- tains to its base ; or when Chimborazo rose from the central fires and reared to tlie sky its burning summit, which is now capped with eternal snows, — the icy region of silence and solitude. These changes were produced by volcanic power. Water has also been a powerful agent in geological changes. It has rushed over precipices and overwhelmed hills and vallies ; rounded large fragments of granite of many tons weight to the shape of pebbles, by grinding them against each otlier, and sweeping them hundreds of miles from their original position. Yet even this wreck of mountains had in it a design ; for the earth which now smiles serenely in the verdure of Spring, or the rich glory of Autumn, was thus furnished with mould preparatory to the production of food fit for the beings that now inhabit it. Such are the scenes unfolded by the study of geology. It is a science still in its infancy, but it is a giant's infancy ; and, unfettered by visionary theories, it rests upon facts powerful in their simplicity, and convincing to every unprejudiced mind ; teaching us that the fatherly care of our Creator was, in times incalculably remote, pre- paring all the harmonies and beauties we now enjoy. The remains of the Iguanodon discovered in what is now called the Iguanodon Quarry, consist of the following bones. 77 Two thigh bones, eat-li 33 inches lonjf Oat leg bone (tibia) 30 ditto ditto Metatarsal and phalangeal bones of the hind feet which much resemble the corresponding bones in the llippopolamus. Two claw bones,\unguical phalanges,)v\uch were covered by the nail or claw and correspond with the Unguical bones of the land tortoise. T\yo fingers or metacarpal bones, of the fore feet, each U inches in length. A liailius (bone of the fore arm^ Several Dorsal, and caudal vertebrie. Fragments of seveial ribs. Two Clavicles or collar bones. Two large flat hatchet bones nh'ich appear to belong to the pe/ci* ; tliey are probably the o«sa i7ia. A chevron bone, or one of the inferior processes of the vertebrae of the tail. A portion of a touth, and the impression of another. The discovery of these Iraves 110 doubt of the identity of the animal with the Iquanodon Mantetli of Tilgate Forest. These valuable rtlics are now at Brighton in the IMuscum of Dr. Mantell, who is preparing to publish a paper on tlie subject. From the well known talent and experience of that gentleman, this will doubtless be a highly interesting production. W. H. B. 78 EPIGRAM. ox THE PnESENTATION OF THE BONES OF THE IGCAXODOX TO DR. MA?7TBL1. OF BRIGHTON. Our young Geologist, who found These monstrous Bones deep underground. And sent his parcel, not a light one. To his enlightened Friend at Brighton ; Imagined, perhaps, like those who send The marbles of almighty Greece, Here, to some Antiquarian friend, They'd make a famous Mantel-piece. F. F. D. THE FAIR PENITENT. Together we sat in a trellised Bower, And we looked on the bright blue sky. And the rose on her cheek was like the flower, And the Heavens were like her eye ; But our couch of moss, in each others arms, Could not be matched, 'mid this cold world's charms. 79 And the wind lliat wantoned up the vale, In its sigh, was like to her own ; For in every breath, each told the tale. Of the flowers it had fed upon : And there seemed not a joy which thb earth has got. And can give to mortals — which we had not. A single cloud came athwart the sky, — And we looked at each other then, T'was like the tear in her bright blue eye. For the faults, and falsehood of men ; And I felt, how quickly, at thought of the past, The heavenliest hour, may be overcast ! The storm-cloud burst — and its fertile shower. Like those tears from her eye, fell fast. Its blessings were shed on fruit, and flower, Till Hope, and the rainbow, came at last ; T'was a sign from Heaven to dry her tears. Which revived the green of her early years. We looked again — and afar from liience. The storm had fled, throughout the sky ; And again shone the blush of innocence. And virtue's ray, o'er her cheek, and eye ; Thus sighs of repentance, will waft to Heaven, The soul of an erring one — forgiven ! F. F. D. 80 'TIS NIGHT. Tis Night ; lonely, and silent, night ; The Moon, and every placid Star, Their homage, to the throne of light, Most meekly pay. Not one so far In the blue, boundless, firmament, Nor lonely, but tlie Sun hath lent His beams of golden glory ; while Each, glistening, in splendor vieth With the other, — beaming out its smile Of bright beatitude, which flieth On viewless wing, from world to world, Till night her banner hath unfurled, — Emblazoned with empyreal gems, l\Ieet for the A ngel's diadems ! All hail, thou most beautiful night ! Hail, ye bright orbs of starry light ! A lover's benizon I bring ; Fresh from the soul's impassioned spring, Wept but for you, — ay, burning tears ; AVhile joy lies frozen in my heart. And slumber — gentle slumber, fears To sully her young wing : No dream Of balmy peace will she impart, But leaves me, lonely, here to weep, (Trembling in the moon's spectral beam,) Too wretched — or to pray, or sleep. 81 'Tis morn ; the sleepless Rook forsakes Her breezy cradle, and her course. Her pathless course, mid heaven, she takes, Chanting her peans loud and hoarse. The dew-winged Laverock soars to bid Thee welcome, glorious Sun ! Thy beams Have waked the purple violet's lid, — Furled through the night, in fragrant dreams : A blush o'erspreads yon mountain's face. At being found in night's embrace ; And, zephyr-kissed, the Lily bends Suffused with blushes ; while the Bee, (Whose velvet vest deep contrast lends To her pale, virgin beauty,) sips Fresh from her maiden nectary. The treasured balm, until his lips With sweet excess are cloyed ; when he Breathes his warm vows of melody. And flies to woo some other blossom, To rifle — and forsake — its bosom. All Nature wakes. The plashing rill. The trembling Aspen, never still. The pensile blade of plaining grass, (Where lately hung the glow-worm's lamp,) Sigh soft their tlianks ; while I, alas ! Akin to Deity— whose stamp— c 82 And very semblance — I do bear, — * Wake but to sorrovv ; — my sad tear The only offering I can give ; "My deepest curse — tliat I must live !" The untiring sun hath reached the goal. And scatters over Earth and Heaven, His smiles effulgent ; moments roll Unnoticed to Eternity, Unfledged by e'en one wretche's sigh ! Time, thou didst sure forget thy leven. Like Butterflies, that love the ray, Young, happy Children are at play. Heedless of morrow ; while their sires, (Who from thejr toil a moment rest,) And gladdened Mothers — gaze, — too blest With the sweet thoughts which Hope inspires, To wake them from their joyous dream, — In sooth, full short, — a transient beam Of sunlight clouded soon ! play on, Ye ruddy urchins, play, 'tis now Your time for joy, — ere care's begun To wrap, in cloud, each sunny brow. Once more 'tis eve : the gentle Dove Doth to the shady copse repair. To murmur out her soul in love ; • " God created Man in his own image," &c. 83 And every denizen of air, (Save giddy gnats, that linger long Upon the evening beam,) doth close Its weary wing. The Nightjar's song With pattering aspen-leaves keeps time, While fainting day-flowers seek repose : The ]\Ioon, again, night's arch doth climb, And wandering star-beams leave their sphere. To bathe in crystal streamlets here. Are all, then, happy 1 Dotli none weep 1 Is there no heart, where, treasured deep. Some by -gone wrong doth festering lie ? Passeth no cloud o'er memory, Blighting, — as 'twere an ague-chill ? Doth no resistless spell lay bare, And wrench from its most secret coils. Some unkind word, — forgotten till Too late for aught but useless prayer 1 Thou tjTant Time, these are thy foils ! Who, scathless, shall the ordeal pass 1 Hast, or shalt, thou t I have, alas ! Oft proved their temper, and can speak To the dire wretchedness they wreak. Ere Time had wrapped his noisome vest, Like the foul grave-clothes round my breast, — G 2 84 I loved the morning's rosy hour, I loved to pluck the dewy flower, I loved to hear the wild bird's sing. To see the bee on breezy wing ; The starry night, the mid-day blue, The glad hills dipped in sunset-hue ; The purling rill, the torrent's dash. The thunder-cloud, the lightning's flash : The Infant's smile — stern Manhood's brow, — But now — they are unheeded, — now. My heart is broken, — every thought Lies crushed, and sear, and worthless— naught ! And is there none could wake to bliss My ruined soul 1 Yes, Lady, yes. Thy smile, its every wound could heal ; And yet, I ask it not : I feel That Heaven hath vnlled my destiny : — Cloud, dakness, storm, — the cold world's hate, And wrong from those whom most I cherish, Cling to me shroud-like. — And shall I Ask Woman's hand to stem my fate 1 Nay — leave me— leave me — let me perish ! T. L. M. 8r. FAREWELL TO THE AMICL Farewell Amici. Brothers all — farewell. Fate bids me part, From those, whose wit so oft in magic spell Hath bound my heart. But Fate's worst tears — can ne'er from Memory's scroll, Blot the bright spots— which you've stamped on my soul. Farewell — gay wreath of genial minds, who hide Time's hoary locks ; May Pleasure, you— her true-born children guide. From Life's hard knocks. A dull stone should not soil the diadem That crowns each week — where every man's a gem. Farewell— dear, happy, blithsome Sons of earth ; I may not share. The cup that glads your board of festive mirth Mine's dashed with care ; But never social bowl shall greet mine eye, And bring not to my soul — The Amici. Farewell — ye bright, red-letter days of joy, In life's black book, Where gladness reigns supreme, without alloy Of word or look. Long in such cycles may The A'mki roil, The orb of wit, — tlie sun-light of the soul. 86 Farewell — ye bards who write the strains ye sing With quill of flame. Plucked from the pinions of Time's stealthy wing His speed to tame. May you ne'er fail — but write and sing together As long as Time's old wing can boast a feather. Farewell Amici — like the bounding herd In forest free. May your hearts gladly leap through life, unseared By Misery. May never stricken deer — your numbers swell. Farewell — Amici — brothers all — farewell. G. W. LINES. Balmy dews on the flower of the desert shall fall. Which, though drooping, again with fresh fragrance shall blow ; But the heart that is slighted, and desolate, shall Be watered by tears only, — sullied with woe. Though clouds veil the morning, yet they shall pass o'er. And the desert-flower glow in the splendour of eve ; But the heart that is blighted can never bloom more, — Lone, — ruined and broken, 'twill sink in the grave, T. L. M. 87 THE CORN-FLOWER. I wander over lull and dale, A spirit-wounded thing j I tell to lonely woods my tale, To feeble flowers I cling. Oh sure the heart that can unbend Itself to flowers and weep, Is joyless — hath no earthly friend, — Or hath been wounded deep. So mine hath been, — ay, wrong on wrong Hath pressed upon it — yes. The world its vial of wrath hath flung O'er me, in bitterness, — Till I have learned mankind to shun, And wrench me from his powers ; To roam 'mid woods and wilds alone, — To commune with wild flowers : — Mute Monitors — though rife with bloom. Sage lessons ye impart ; " Beauty shall perish in the tomb, — Woe shade the blithest heart. Like stars, — at morn, with glistening dew, We glory in tiie beam ; Ere night we die ; proud Mortals — you Shall fade — e'en as a dream !" 88 Look on yon Corn-flower, — bright and blue. Doth it not speak of Heaven 1 Or why thus dyed with Heaven's own hue, Was it to mortals given ? At morn, whene'er I see it wake. Sparkling with radiant dew, I love it, — ^yes, for Anna's sake. For She hath loved it too. I sit down by its side, and weep, And tell it all my woes ; Each sorrow, passionate and deep. That bright-blue Corn-flower knows : Each thought that bends my gloomy brow, — In many a burning word, I've told that listless flower, — as though 'Twere Anna's self — that heard. The false Bee may forsake the flower. When rifled and despoiled ; The Mother may forget the hour That gave back her lost child ; The Ring-dove may forget her nest. The Nightingale — her song ; The Tyrant's sleep be calmly blest. The Slave — forget his wrong : — But I shall ne'er forget that flower, At eve, or morning early j 89 It gilds with hope each weary hour, — And I will love it dearly ! Yes — that shall point to realms above. When wordly wrongs oppress me ; And, Anna, — wheresoe'er you rove, I'll think you hear and bless me, T. L. M. TO Shall I ne'er more behold thee, love 1 No — never see thee more : Xor in these arms enfold thee, love, As they were wont of yore 1 No more the moonlight ramble take ? Nor join the gladsome song 1 Nor sail together on the lake. In sweet discourse, along 1 A bright ray still of hope yet shines. And bids me not despair ; I hear it in those village chimes. Come floating on tlie air. Then no ! — Oli ! ne'er forget me love. But give me all thy heart — And dove-like peace, from realms above. Shall join us, ne'er to part. W. P. 90 LIFE, DEATH, AND IM^IORTALITY. Lend me thine ear, thou child of care. While thus I show you, what you are j And ye — whatever be your state, Or high, or low, or little-great. Or good, or bad, or grave, or gay. Listen a moment to my lay. Not that my humble verse, or prose, Could animate, or pleasure, those — The sordid, cold, and callous, crew ; But I address myself to you — The free, the friendly, faithful /ei/j / I ask you, — when the genial Spring Shall change the face of every thing. And Nature shall again be seen In her bright garniture of green, With me, enthusiast, to walk forth. In the gay garden of the Earth ; And, while, at every step, we cull Blossoms — as truly beautiful As ever were the storied flowers ; Of Tempe's aromatic bowers; While everywhere, about, above. The birds make animate the grove With the full tide of life, and love ; 91 While, round us, are a thousand dyes, Of leaves, and leaf-like butterflies. And many a wild flower fragrance flings ; Here — amid bright created things ; — To sit with me— for such a scene Tells what we are— sliall be— have been- The very simplest blade of grass Is full of what will come to pass, And tells, to Contemplation's eye, That it is born to live, and die ! Behold the seeming shapeless form. Of yonder caterpillar-worm. See, from what various other weeds It finds the leaf, on which it feeds ; How blithe it basks it in tlie sun AVhene'er its morning's meal b done ; How hides it, in its lurking-place. From some fell spoiler of its race, Who thinks it but meet sacrifice, That when he wills it — something dies ! See, too, with what toil, and care, It weaves its web of gossamer. And fashions forth — that simple worm, A robe for lovely woman's form ; Itself, its generation, lost, Adorning, what's " adorned the most, 92 When KJiadorned" — as t'were to try To paint the purest Lily's dye, Or add a something, sweeter yet. Unto the perfumed violet ; — Poor worm ! so perishing — so proud — It only works to weave its shroud ! But let me, also, try to tell This petty Insect's parallel ; IMan — what art thou — thy youth — thine age — Thy love, hate, envy, power, and rage ? Hast thou one passion, action, such As that poor worm, hath not as much 1 Seeks it not where to live, and die 1 Types it not, Immortality "? Dos't THOU not (here at least akin) Eat, sleep, and wake, and " toil, and spin V And tell me, what on earth you have? — A brighter life 1 — a better grave 1 Few months have passed. How changed the scene From what is now, and what has been, "WTiere is the worm we saw "? — is this, Its semblance — in the Crysalisl Inane, inanimate, and tame. Devoid of life, except in name ; Sphinx — Mummy — whatsoe'er thou art Where is tliy soul — thy better part ? 93 Sleeps it— until the voice of God Summon it from the seeming clod ? Dwelleth it — in its native dust Till, in good time, its bonds shall burst 1 And Man, thy spirit, does the tomb Enthral it — till a light shall come From Eden, to dispel the gloom ? But, see, — the Grave gives up its dead, And yields the Victory. Instead Of the dark form that bade us fear A moment, that its bright career, Had both begun, and ended, here ; It moves, it breathes, and from it springs, A radiant form, with angel wings ; Sips it awhile the flower, the dew. When both are beautiful, and new ; Settles a moment here, and there. Then wafts itself to upper air ; And, in its gay, and glorious guise. Joins with its kindred Butterflies ! Ah ! well they knew in early Greece, Who gave thee thine eternal name, That the sweet simple word ipuxv^ Meant Soul, and Butterfly, the same ; — For where could fitter emblem be Of Immortality, than thee , Thy birth, thy life, thy death, thy rise 94 From the tomb's trammels, to the skies 1 Thus, Man, though all thy bright hopes, lie In the cold grave, with those who die ; Though of the loveliest, bereft, And naught, that seems worth loving, left ; The very link, of all the chain That bound most firmly — broke in twain ; The very flower we cherished most. Nipped in the bud — so loved — so lost That earth to us is but a waste. Where nothing tempting can be traced ; A garden, where each fair flower blows, Except our favourite one — the Rose ; Yet, think ye, there are flowers that bloom, In the bright realms beyond the tomb ; That — broken hearts, and severed ties. Shall re-unite in Paradise ; That— there, whate'er we knew, or loved. Whoe'er have been by death removed. Shall in their purity appear Without the hope, the doubt, the fear. That hangs o'er our affections here ! And, should a doubt once dim thine eye, Or should a fear, once make thee sigh, Think on thy Type— the Butterfly ;— And learn from it thou'lt surely be Inheritor of Eternity ! F. F. D. 95 TO May'st thou ne'er feel the pangs I've felt. Nor know the sorrow I have known ; Rudely hath Fortune with me dealt, And never looked but with a frown. The Heart I thought was mine for ever. Has not a throb now left for me — ft So let it be — and I will never Recall thee to my memory. 'Tis madness, thus to waste away My thoughts upon a worthless One ! And hark ! bright Hope doth seem to say, With soothing voice, and silvery tone, — " Brighter hours may yet be thine. Fortune yet may cease to frown. Pleasure, with her flowers, may twine A wreath of happiness, — and drown All thy sorrows and thy cares j Glad thy heart, and stay thy tears." S. P. 96 CALUMNY. Again we meet. One trial more For this poor heart, so lone and meek ; Near broken 'tis, and seared at core : Again must I his presence seek — This o'er, I'll hie me to some quiet cot. And then forget the world, and be forgot. Alas ! that cruel world's cold scorn And base, and slanderous calumny, I scarce, with innocence, have borne ; Yet still could bear ; but, the base lie E'en He believed — then hope, peace, all — was lost And my mind maddened — shattered, tempest-tossed. Like a frail barque amid the surge, By the rude winds 'mongst breakers forced To make her dangerous way, and urge Her onward course, though all coerced By the wild elements, yet undecayed ; So, by vile slander's blasts am I betrayed. Oh ! I would hope — but what is Hope 1 The bright creation of the mind. With expectation winged : whose scope Is future good— the wish to find " Imagination's pleasures realized" — Then come sweet Hope ! thou shalt be dearly prized. 97 Vet, with this semblance of a calm, Tears, tears will fill the bursting eye. Even to anguish : Vet 'tis balm, To my lone heart, despite the sigh, To think 'tis like the void of liglitning's glare — Which gone — but leaves one in more deep despair. Avaunt — forebodings dark ! I now To his stern presence go— dread task ! His searching glance I'll bear ; and vow (In virtue firm) to dare to ask My crime and my accuser. Be He just, A* is my cause ! Oh Heaven, in thee I trust. J. B. A SIMILE. (man AXO TH« BCTTEBFLT.) We linger on earth but a lengthened minute, The palmer-worms of this wondrous world ; The grave holds our crysalLs corse within it, But a Winter's day— ere our wings are unfurled. And up soars the eternal soul, and spirit. Far away from thee — thou insect-fly ; Hie gardeas of God's own gift to inherit, And to '•ip the flowers of Eternity ! r. F. J). 98 LINES. ADDREBSED TO LEEDS CASTLE. Leeds ! thy proud towers are crumbling into dust I The glories of a thousand years have fled : Lonely, — and lorn, art thou in thine old age. Where are thy strong-holds now, — those hell-like dens. Where red-eyed Murder glutted him, — where Death Did gorge unto repletion, and grow sick, — And left the lingering wretch, to rust away. Together with the chain that bound him there 1 The Owl, profane, hath built therein her nest. And mocks them through the night. The wall-flower sheds Its perfume now, where erst 'twas rank with blood : The sluggish stream, that palsied the sick heart, As round the Keep it crept, is girdled now, With wreaths of water-lilies — that, like Hope, Float on the darkest stream, and emblem peace. The " Maiden-tower" — that consecrated spot, — Where virgin innocence was wont to watch, And revel in the glowing West, the while The Sun in bright abandonment sank down. To dream till morn, upon those hoary hills : — Where is it now 1 — 'lis Imt a legend's spell ! 99 It was an Eden, once ! — for I have seen The musings of tlie JNIaid wlio dwelt therein ; Who (as some meek and undiscovered spring, Scattering in solitude its dewy gems, — AVliile to its own sweet minstrelsy it lists, — Trembles, as doth the conscious willow sigh In whispered echoes back, its plaintive song,) Would shrink abashed at her own witching voice, — Soft as young Zephyr preluding the Sun. Pure, precious thoughts, they were ! like balmy dews, Wafted on morning's sighs — all heaven-ward borne. Like gossamer, above the clouds. Sweet thoughts ! Like honey, dropped from the young Lily's lip, As o'er her image in the stream she bends. Oil ! 'tis most withering, to think that such, — Our inmost thoughts, — most sweet revealments, shall Be bared unto the callous worldling's gaze ! Siiall be the jest of Barter's vulgar sons ! That thus, the mystic melody of mind, — " The fine perceptions of the beautiful," — Conceived, as only fervid minds conceive, — Poured out from the wrapt soul in phrenzied sighs — Each sigh a throb— to genial spirits given, — Should, by a thriftless Alien'i hand bestrown, Like glowing rose-leaves scattered by tlie blast ! II 2 100 Alas, for all the vanities of life ! Mortals, come hither — read this blotted page Of Destiny's dark book, — and thou shalt see "^^'hat very baby's play, are all the proud — The idolized — creations of mankind. I prithee mark those once— majestic towers — How Time hath wrapped them in his winding-sheet ! Those lichens pale, and ivy's gloomy vest, — They are his beautiful emblazonry ; Yes — they're the 'scutcheons of departed years. And rife with grandeur, impotence, and death ! And lo, yon sun-beam, struggling through the mist, The purple mist of eve, — how it doth mock Their gray decrepitude — as if it said "V'ain ]\Ian ! forego these gilded mummeries. I'hat beam hath passed away, and stilly Eve Comes stealing on us in yon crescent-moon : I'he lowing Ox doth seek his foddered crib, The wether-bell directs the bleating flock, The chirping Cricket bids her lover, list ; The Rook lies cradled 'mongst yon "wich-e]m'a" boughs, The Beetle buzzes by on merry wing ; The lazy Owl, and flickering Bat, are out. The glow-worm hangs her lamp out in the glade, Where dew-drops bid the Pismire come and sip : The weary Husbandman hath reached his Cot, 101 And given liis blessing — (all he liad to give !) Unto tlie ruddy dreamer by his side. And thus it was, an hundred years ago, And shall be thus unto the end of time — Eternal Nature to herself is true. Not so, is it, with Man's proud handyworks, — They are but for a time. — A few years back. Those Halls, now dark, were lustrous as the Sun, And revelry, and joyous iiearts, were there ; Each day, upon its wings, a pageant bore, — Each day, were fed therein a hundred moutlis, — And joy was echoed to the very Keep, — They took no heed of the swift-winged hours — As though meek Time were grown their serving-mau! — 'Twas visited by Kings — and wished for, too, — And wrested from its Lord — wlio, dim-eyed dujie, I'rankt out in gems, said, " Lo ! ill hand mc down 'J'o future days ; and men, as they beliold 'J'lie effigies of my all-glorious line, Shall gaze, and struck with awe, shrink back, and deem— Us Gods." X'ain wrctrli ! what was thy glittering life 1 A painted autumn-leaf! A gaudy siired ! And men do marvel much wiiy tiiou wcrt proud. Thy jewelled brow might make the vulgar cower — His awe, meet homage to lliy haughty luow, — Tlicsc jewels now, arc ail of tliiiie that's sought ! 102 Rare relics for the Antiquary's shelf: Whose niggard lore, their vain inscriptions swell. Learn hence, ye Great — (though it dash your cup with gall,) The grand, distinctive badge of Man — is Mind ; Whose lustre, like the Sun's, shall light the world : While empty Pride — though glittering with gold. Shall, like a Meteor's unsubstantial glare. Dazzle the vulgar — and obscurely die ! T. L. M. TO THE EAGLE. Thou haughty denizen of heaven ! whose nest Is 'mongst the granite-peaks — which have withstood The angry storms of ages — wind and flood — There dost thou proudly sit, and take thy rest : On roll the dark clouds, roaring, 'neath thy breast ; Raves the mad tempest through the groaning wood ; Fierce flash red lightnings through infinitude — Thy firm soul shrinks not — but seems calmly blest. Oh ! that I had thy mighty wing !— elate, I'd soar far, far, into the deep-blue skies, In quest of the eternal paradise : I'd scorn the sordid, soul-less, would-be great — Forgive earth's wrongs, and all mine enemies — And calmly smile on Death— the Grave — and Fate. T. L. M. 101 SONG. O come again to me, my love, O come again to me. For I am very sorrowful When parted, love, from thee ; Like a deserted child, that seeks In vain its mother's breast. Or lonely bird, whose mate hath flown To some more dear one's nest. Then meet me in the green-wood lane, Where we so oft have met, I'll tell thee how my heart hath grieved For joys 'twill ne'er forget, I'll shew thee how the sunless flowers Droop mournfully and pale ; I'll shew thee Autumn's faded leaves, — They tell mine own sad tale. I'll shew to thee the dewy tears Tliat lave each flowret's eye ; rU bid thee list the wailing, as Tlic weary grass doth sigh ; I'll Ijid thee gaze upon my brow, Which Peace hatli left a wreck; For well I know thy sunny looks Will lure the wanderer back. 104 Then come ! — I'll lead thee to the stile Where we oft lingered long, And blent our tearful murmurs with The Cuckoo's plaintive song ; Yes come ! — and I will tell thee, love, What only sighs may speak ; Or, brooding o'er its silent grief, My lonely heart will break. T. L. M. TO THE RAINBOW. Spirit of beauty ! that amid the skies Enshrined, doth smiling soothe the groan Of the unquiet thunder — whose expiring tone Grows faint, then lowlier murmuring, dies ; — Lovely thou art ! as Woman's heavenly eyes. While shedding tears unto her bosom's moan. Lit by her sunny smile— which she alone Can blend so magically with her sighs. That cloud, thine amethystine shrine, hath fled, And faded hath thine every lovely hue ; But still, the sky serene's intensely blue ! So Woman's eye, when its sad tears are shed. Beams with a lustre, calmer, holier, too — Since Peace returns — which woe had banished. T. L. M. 105 THE ROSE. (lUlIATKD mOU TIIK r.HKEK') I found a Rose in my Lady's bower, With a stricken stem, and a faded leaf; And I tried to save the failing flower, And my care and caresses brought relief; Again, it blessed, my beloved one's eyes, In freshness, and beauty, again has blown ; And exhales a thousand smiles, and siglis, In perfume, and purity, like her own. — 'Twas thus Anacreon, on a night Of thunder, lightning, hail, and rain. Admitted Cupid, (that cunning wight,) Whom never could he eject again : The boy was wet, and cold, and tired. His arrows blunt, his bow unstrung ; But when he was housed, and fed, and fired, 'Twas thus to his host, the urchin sung ; "Old man, old man, let's try what harm, "The storm has wrought to my bow and dartjf T<{5t t6^0V, iff tI fMOt fVI' BAa§tTo( ^qaxiiffo- vfvyi). A\A(Hi.()N Eli EI'niA. 106 "Have my words lost their power to warml "Are my arrows too blunt for thy cold heart? Twang went the bow ! — the arrow sped, — And Cupid flew to the realms above ; But Anacreon's heart, Anacreon's head. Was filled with nothing but love, love, love. — Oh surely the Rose in my lady's bower. Has acted anew the young God's part ; I saved the life of the fragile flower. But find that its thorns have pierced my heart! F. F. D. EPITAPH. ON A MOTHER. If Wisdom, ^ irtue. Piety, and Love, If all the Charms that Nature ever gave. The mind from Heaven — the Spirit of the Dove, If these — and more than these, availed to save Heavens fairest Work — fair Woman, from the grave. If these, and more than these could have defied Death's desolating dart — She well might crave Eternal life: her husband ne'er had sighed Her Children ne'er had wept — for she had never died ! F. F. D. 107 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Lone bird of niglit — tliy flood of song Is poured fortli to the silent IMoon ; To those chaste flowers that bloam and bieathe. Through midnight's still, and holy noon. And when thou pausest in thy strain. The waterfall is heard to sigh ; While on its ripples murmuring by, The moon-beams sparkle, dance, and die. And Spirits seem to hover o'er, The mists that wreathe the Castle wall, — 'Neath which the gurgling waters creep — To prisoners there, a stream of gall. The bell of yonder church tolls — One, And scares the spectral Owl away : Then cease, lone bird, thy melody. For soon will dawn the coming day. And hark, — the whispering aspens tell. The breath of Morn awaketli now. The heather-bell — the wilding rose, — To garland many a fragrant bough. From off its ears the leveret shakes. Hie chilling damp of midnight's breath. 108 Yet listens cautiously, and fears Its numerous foes, all rife with death. Day comes ! and zephyrs rock the bough. Where sits the Dove— a parent blest : Lone bird of night, thy music hush — And 'neath the white-thorn take thy rest. W. B, TO A BLASTED OAK. Hail to thee, hoary, tempest-stricken. Oak ! Full many gusts have ripped thy gnarled stem ; But, like a giant, thou hast warred with them, Nor blenched beneath the forked-lightning's stroke : The thunder, which hath hoarsely o'er thee broke, Pealing, as 'twere, the forest's requiem. Hath been to thee, but as the storm-god's hymn ; The tempest's frown — but as a baby-look. The victor thou, though scathed, and leafless left ; And Time's emblazonry — those lichens grey. Shall grace thy knotted trunk yet many a day. So Man, of every blessing else bereft. Shall, if stern Virtue's dictates he obey. Triumph o'er fate — liovve'er his heart be cleft. T. L. M. 109 THE SUICIDES GRAVE. Twas Night — tlie lustrous star of eve had set ; The Moon, in spectral, pale, obscurity. Was, cloud-wrapt, sinking in the Aided west ; The heavy clouds came toiling slowly on. Mass piletl on mass, like mountains huge and wiM, Harsh, dense, abrupt, chaotically heaped ; They crowded on : the struggling Moon's dim ray NVas overcast, and darkness veiled the world. In gloomy thought (for gloomy thoughts will come To chequer e'en the brightest path with shade,) I wandered lone. It was a dreary road. And through dark alleys of funereal pines, (That moaned a requiem to departed da}',) It led to where four roads converging met : A spot that doth in timid minds call up Fearful imaginings — invested oft With all the dread habiliments of death, — Which make tlie cold flesh shiver to tlie bone. I thought of life, and all its crowd of wrongs. Ah ! who shall dash tlie tup of vvrctciiedness From Time's all-concjuering and relentless hand. And thus make earth a paradise once more I \'ain quest ! Ilatli not the God of Heaven imprest Its stern, eternal, withering curse on Man I no The curse on Adam lives through all his race, And life is toil and crime ; — death, — bitterness ! Wrapt in the wildering spells of thought, I went, Heedless alike of all external things, Until the shouting of a heartless crew Aroused me ; and just then, a sudden bend In my drear path, revealed the hateful cause Of their unhallowed, and untimely mirth. By lurid torches lit, the brutal throng IMoved slowly on to that detested spot, The tWence ! — A suicidal wretch they bore. Whose corse, with scornful and reviling yell. Into the shallow grave they careless flung. The heavy sound still haunts my frighted ear — The dismal scene still clouds my aching eye. 'Twas an appalling sight — for, as they hurled The wretch, unpitied, to his peaceless grave, The livid lightning, angry, darted down. As if to l)last, with heaven-directed flash. The relics of that lawless Man ; while groaned The uneasy thunder for his burial-hymn. Meanwhile, a bat— lured by th' unnatural glare. Flitted in elfin maze from torch to torch. As though it were the spirit, demon-winged, Of that despised One. Some shrieked — and some + Wencf. (in Kent) a place where four ways meet and cross each other. Bailey. Ill Did shudder in dread silence and draw back. The wailing wind moaned hoarsely 'mongst the trees, And dead leaves rustled as they fell to earth ; Save that tiie golden goss its fragrance breathed, All nature seemed as teeming with one curse For that lorn being — whom his fellows left, l"o rot, in rank pollution, for the worm. I could not add my curse unto the rest, But turned me from the sickening sight away. Oh ! God !— that Man should be, to fall at last. Weighed down by trouble's load, and thus be flung A hated thing — into the grave ! But say, Was there not one kind lip to breathe a prayer ? One feeling eye in sympathy to weep ? Oh, yes ! One, gentle eye then shed its tears. One faltering tongue then fervently besought Forgiveness of offended Heaven for liim. An aged Woman, stricken by deep griefs. Who'd shared the nipping penury of his fate. Who'd known the sorrows that had racked his soul. Remained at that lone spot to weep and pray. Oh ! all-enduring is a Mother's love ! I'pon a liappy breast she cradled liiin ; His sunny youth dispellcJ each gloomy tiiought ; 112 His manhooJ, was lo her, Hope's harvest-home . And when, as from a pest, all others fled. With tears she hallowed his deserted tomb, — Asking of — Heaven what none else dare, or would And shall his soul,unshriven, haunt that spot, To fright the 'nighted traveller on his way "! Nay — though the deed were chronicled in heaven, God surely heard that prostrate Mother's prayer. And bade his Angel, Mercy, blot it out. T. L. M. IMPROMPTU. *'ON A BEAUTIFUL, BUT DEPRAVKD GIRL." How pitious 'tis — to see the blooming thing Tricked out, in all the glowing hues of Spring ; So fair a bosom — on which man might rest His aching heart, when sorrow's throes oppressed ; Such lips, such eyes, such seeming innocence, The brightest work of bright Omnipotence ; How piteous 'tis — to see a thing so fair A fiend to trust— an angel to ensnare. Such teacherous bloom the fruit Asphaltine bore To catch the eye — whilst ashes filled the core. G. W. Hen, Member. 113 10 THE VIOLET. Hail ! beauteous harbinger of Spring, Thou perfumed, blue-eyed, pretty thing ! The warblers of the woodlands sing. And bless thy early bloom. The dewdrop gems thy modest head. And zephyrs play around thy bed. Then steal away, and sweetly shed, Thy exquisite perfume. Like beauty, thou must fade away, Fade as the sun's departing ray That gilds the earth, at close of day. Then leaves it all in gloom. Thou breathest thine own destiny. From danger, thou art never free. Each breath of wind that passeth me, Foretels thy certain doom. * • • • • A ruthless hand liatli plucked thy stem, Parched are thy leaves, the dewy gem, That once sat like a diadem, Now sparkles there no more. Would thou had'st known (poor simple thing). That flowers which round them odors fling, Must perish in their blossoming, — All ! now thy day is oVr. S. P. 114 SPRING MORNING. One morn— one glowing morn of Spring, When Birds and Bees were on the wing, I sauntered — who would not that could ? — Into the green-wood's solitude : My heart was open, as mine ear, To catch each sound that whispered near. For all around me seemed to be Sanctified by Divinity. My eye there revelled in the sight. Of all that's beautiful and bright. And my soul, purified with love Of Earth below, and Heaven above. Expanded, like a beauteous flower. Warmed by some wondrous, secret. Power At this enchanting, early, hour ! Oh, when we throw aside the coil Of this world's wrong, and care, and toil ; When we forget we are mere men, Who must return to work again, And feel that our Inheritance Is far above this cold world's wants ; We are another race from those Who sink beneath its wants, or woes ; 115 We walk a different region then From common souls of other men, And then unite the broken chain That links us unto Heaven again ! But to my theme — nor think if such. And so susceptible to touch My feelings, they were o'erwrought much. The thoughts I've thus together thrown. Were Nature's gift — and not mine own ; If I found jewels in the mine, Her's was the light, that made them shine ; And here I bow the knee to her, Her weak, though warmest, worshipper ! I saw the flowers beneath me rise, Opening their dear and dewy eyes j The Primrose, forth its perfume sent. That lulled me into languishment j The Violet hung its modest head. Emerging from its emerald bed. So secretly, in that sweet spot. As 'twere to say — " If it were not " For this exhalement, I'm forgot," A thousand Huttcrflowcrs around, Spangled, as 'twere with stars, the ground ; As if they thus took up the strain, I 2 116 Of Night's innumerable train. And told, in every step I trod, The same existence of their God ; Written with the same pen of liglit In flowers by day — or stars by night ! And as to fancy's ear, eacli sound ']"hat in the woodland whispers round. Is with significance replete. And wondrous Deed — and warrior feat — So did the feathered Hazel ask " Am I not plume for Warrior's casque 1" While, as if conscious what it meant, Each nodding crest waved its assent. I wandered thence — but where's the spot On Earth, that to the mind, has not Some lesson of intelligence. To warn from sin, and wean from sense ; Some intellectuality, To link our spirit to the Sky I I saw a Shii Lark gently rise. Pluming his wings to reach the skies. The real Bird of Paradise ! Then did my spirit soar with him. As 'twere a beckoning Cherubim ; I heard the sky-bird's orison Poured out unto its God alone ; 117 Xor could resist the silent prayer, The hymn of praise, it taught me there ; I marked the winged thing's descent Back to its eartlily tenement ; And heard with what a plaintive scream It settled there — as man's bright dream, Oft leaves his waking heart to feel It's view of Heaven was but ideal. Here, as in all things, man will find The happier lot to him assigned. And must himself here gratulate, L'pon his brighter, better, fate, For like the Lark's, his soul will rise, But unlike hU, it never dies ! — Thus bound as in a magic spell, 1 seized a Harp i/ou know full ictll, And though my hand could ill essay To strike the string— its Master* may — So well his skill had tuned the chords, His was the music — these the words ! 1 . F. 1). • ThisalluMon nctdf no explanation to the members of the Amici, who will imnicdialcjy a|ipr«|iriale lo tlic proper person, lliia well iUsitvcJ coinpli- inrnt lo llic kiipcrior |kiuit. "caIIOL\.n"s KECBIPT rOB DRINKING WHISKY." When Man was bom to sorrow, as the sparks upward fly, Some sparks were sent to dieer him, — ^fhrougli Woman's bright eye ; That life's brief hours — should teem with • flowers — to Poet's souls 'twas given. To breathe rich thought, in numbers sweet — like fire from Heaven . Then raise the glass — to Melody — to Woman's sparkling eye, The feast of soul — the fire-crowned bowl — the Amici. Chorus, then raise &c Though life's dire cup of misery — with acids be filled. Though sorrow's frost may blanch our brows — and warm hearts be chilled ; We'll neutralize the acid draught — witii Friendship's alkali, And we'll thaw each heart with nectar — in the Amkt. Then raise ice. As Orpheus wiled old Cerberus — with Music's sweet strain. With song and glee — we'll cheat old Time — and Care's drowsy train; As Orpheus made the demons dance — and cheered old Pluto's soul. We'll have no "blue devils" here, save those that waltz round the bowl. Then raise &c. When the snows of forty winters more our temples adorn, May life's calm eve be cheery — as its noon or its morn ; And when I depart, may no bright heart put on tiic garb of gloom, Hut may all the Amu i — .shake hands round my tomb. Then raise i^c. Cj, W . (^11 on. Memher.) 146 THE SISTERS. Two violets on a moss bank grew, One virgin white, the other blue, Blue as the April skies above. Or eyes that look and tell of love. And when the dewy night had fled, A sun-beam played around their bed. And kissed to life their golden eyes, And revelled in their perfumed sighs. Joyous they seemed, and free from care. And innocence seemed truly there. For there, the bee would fold her wing. And hid in moss the wren would sing. A whispering harmony was heard. Of zepher's sigh, and song of bird. Of distant sheep-bell, on the hill, And gushing waters in the rill. The Sisters breathed their sweet perfume. Heedless of their companion's doom, Alas, why should the beauteous flower, Bloom, fade, and die, within an hour. Could aught save purity be there ? Alas ! beneath — the Adder's lair. 147 Was seen — and there its poisoned breatli, Inflicted agony, and death. But, the pure flowers bloomed on in smiles, Nor feared the reptile's, deadly wiles ; Like Modesty, they stood unharmed. And of it'^ venom Viff disarmed. \V. H. B. SONNET. THK -DRKAV. 1 liad a dream: Rethought, as I asleep, 'Mongst dew-lipped, incense-breathing flowers lay, Delicious music swelled, then died away. Like songs of shells breathed o'er the t\viiit deep: A radiant creature there did vigil keep, A thousand colors d}ed her wings, as tliey In empyrean light, did fluttering play ; Her eyes — Oii! naught so bright could ever weep! Her wings she furled, and to my couch she came. And bending gently o'er me, kissed my cheek. And whispered, "Brother! come with me on high!" Sure there is music in tlie Moon's pale beam — For I awoke, just as that voice did speak, And Cynthia, all-unveiled, illumed the sky. I. I,. M. 148 MY MOTHER'S EARLY GRAVE. How fresh and green is the memory Of my Mother's early grave, In the old church-yard — where chesnut trees, Their shady branches wave ; The elms — the buttressed tower — tlie bell — The gothic, ivied wall. The ruined palace — Ah ! how well I recollect them all. Ihere — my young heart it's griefs unbound, There — mournfully, I've pressed, And lingered round, — the daisied mound That guards her dreamless rest. And heart-drawn tears, at that green shrine Have dimmed my childish eye ; Till every flower appeared to pine, And every leaf to sigh. I tried to recollect her, ere They placed her 'neath the sod, And thought I heard her dying prayer. Commending me to God ; And, while I deemed her eye might bless My path from realms above, — Tlie air seemed filled with tenderness — The heavens smiled with love. i4n There— idly, I've the che>niit torn From out its prickly shell ; Pure were its hues, — as Life's bright morn E'er grief hath broke the ppell. But soon, Alas ! each tinctured ray, That gladdened me, had flown ; The withered chesnut, — shrouded, lay la gloo.niness alone. All ! What a type of iiuman bliss. Through many a rankling thorn ^Ve scarce have reached it, — ere — like this. Its magic hues are gone. What more is Life ? A bitter tear. Condensed, by care's alloy. From childhood's rosy atmosphere Of hope, and love, and joy. Now youth's pure feelings, fresh, and warm, Time's chilling breath hath quenched ; And glittering hopes have shed their charm. And griefs my heart-strings wrenched ; E'ca now —though loving ties around My soul their tendrils wave, A tear starts, — when I think upon My Mother's early grave. (I. \V. f Hon. Member.) 150 THE AMICI. Nay, ours is no solicitude For what we eat, or what we drink. But for the less substantial food, That relish of the mind — to think — To feel we are not common clay. Mere heritors of joy and sorrow ; (Who only live throughout to-day. To vegetate the same to-morrow ;) To dedicate one night like this. The brightest pleiad of the seven, To social, intellectual, bliss. Which draws us so much nearer heaven ! To meet, like alchymists of old. Seeking the philosophist's stone. Converting, thus, the hours to gold, Not merely to oneself alone ; To coin that inoflensive wit At which no lip in rage is curled, But which whoe'er receiveth it Can utter current through the world ; To fabricate, as here we do, That chain of intellectual link, Which binds without our thinking so. Imparling what each other thinks. 151 And which, if one of us hath taught Some sentiment above the rest. Electric-like will send the tliouglit, Responsive through each other's breast. Who then would change these rarer joys, (Albeit unblest with Woman's smile,) For revels fraught with care and noise, Whose very memory doth defile. After an evening, spent like ours, AVe seek our pillow free from pain ; And sleep— like dew, on folded flowers — Freshens us for the world again. F. F. D. F I X I S , J UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series 444 3i^^^^^pvrii^^^^9VI|SI i §L: ^s^^^^n&J#A^^^^^n&l#Al < OS ^^ ^(^ojnvjjo^ ^mnv3-jo^' JfO%. ,^OFCALIFO% UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIL TY AA 000 297 519 1