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While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore,
Yields us the smile that once entranced the

Moor.
How Scotland's vales are peopled to the heart
By her bold minstrels' necromantic art !
Along this sern moved Jeannie's patient feet,
Where hangs yon mist, rose Ellangowan's seat,
Here the sad bride first gave her love a tongue,
And there the chief's last shout of triumph

rung:
Beside each stream, down every glen they

throng,
The cherished offspring of creative song!
Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore,
The bard of Avon hallowed Elsinore :
Perchance when moored the fleet, awaiting day,
To fix the battle's terrible array,
Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep,
So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep,
Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone
Blend with the water's melancholy moan,
Recalled, with prayer and awe-suspended breath
His wild and solemn questionings of death,
Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song,
Swept by the night breeze plaintively along!

A FOREST WALK.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

A LOVELY sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers, O’er hill, through dale, my steps have won,

To the cool forest's shadowy bowers; One of the paths all round that wind,

Traced by the browsing herds, I choose,
And sights and sounds of human kind

In nature's lone recesses lose ;
The beech displays its marbled bark,

The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,

The maple's scallop'd dome beside :
All weave on high a verdant roof,
That keeps the very sun aloof,
Making a twilight soft and green,
Within the column’d, vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odours have their birth
From the clothed boughs and teeming earth;
Where pine cones dropp’d, leaves piled and

dead,
Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,
With many a wild flower's fairy urn,

A thick, elastic carpet spread ;

Here, with its mossy pall, the tru
Resolving into soil, is sunk;
There, wrench'd but lately from its throne,

By some fierce whirlwind circling past, Its huge roots mass'd with earth and stone,

One of the woodland kings is cast.

Above, the forest tops are bright
With the broad blaze of sunny light :
But now a fitful air-gust parts

The screening branches, and a glow
Of dazzling, startling, radiance darts

Down the dark stems, and breaks below; The mingled shadows off are roll’d, The sylvan floor is bathed in gold : Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, Display their shades of brown and green: Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, Gleams twinkle on the laureľ's gloss ; The robin, brooding in her nest. Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast; And, as my shadow prints the ground, I see the rabbit upward bound, With pointed ears an instant look, Then scamper to the darkest nook,

Where, with crouch'd limb, and staring eye, 7. He watches while I saunter by.

A narrow vista, carpeted
With rich green grass, invites my tread •

Here showers the light in golden dots,
There sleeps the shade in ebon spots,
So blended, that the very air
Seems network as I enter there.
The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum

Afar has sounded on my ear,
Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirrs to the sheltering branches near ; The little milk-snake glides away, The brindled marmot dives from day ; And now, between the boughs, a space Of the blue, laughing sky I trace : On each side shrinks the bowery shade; before me spreads an emerald glade ; The sunshine steeps its grass and moss, That couch my footsteps as I cross; Merrily hums the tawny bee, The glittering humming-bird I see; Floats the bright butterfly along, The insect choir is loud in song : A spot of light and life, it seems A fairy haunt for fancy dreams. Here stretch'd, the pleasant turf I press, In luxury of idleness; Sun-streaks, and glancing-wings, and sky, Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye: While murmuring grass, and waving trees, Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze,

And water-tones that tinkle near,
Blend their sweet music to my ear ;
And by the changing shades alone
The passage of the hours is known.

THE SEA-IN CALM.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours Upon us !—Mark! how still (as though in

dreams Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems! How silent are the winds! No billow roars : But all is tranquil as Elysian shores !

The silver margin which aye runneth round

The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound: Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors !

What! is the giant of the ocean dead,
Whose strength was all unmatched beneath

the sun ?
No; he reposes !

Now his toils are done, More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed,

And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be.

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