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ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

BY WILSON.

MAGNIFICENT creature ! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming

head;
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale!-
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful !-hail !
Hail ! idol divine!-whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the

morn, Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain

and moor, As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore; For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, Are spread in a garment of glory o’er thee, Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne. O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone-A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There the bright heather springs up in love of thy

breast, Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest ; And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill. In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still !-

Though your branches now toss in the storm of

delight Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, One moment—thou bright apparition--delay ! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.

His voyage is o’er.—As if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race-
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place,
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;
With rock wall-encircl'd--with precipice crown'd-
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a

bound. 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth

keep One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep, And close to that covert, as clear to the skies When their blue depths are cloudless, a liule lake

lies, Where the creature at rest can his image behold, Looking up through the radiance, as bright and

as bold.

Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in re

pose In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, With a haughty defiance to come to the war. No outrage is war to a creature like thee; The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with

death, In feet that draw power from the touch of the

heath, — In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar, In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no

more, Thy trust—'mid the dangers that threaten thy

reignBut what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious

feet; And his last cry of anger comes back from the

skies, As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

AN ITALIAN SUMMER EVENING.

BY BYRON.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night

Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height

Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free

From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West,

Where the day joins the past eternity ; While on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the

blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns

With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains

Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rheatian hill

As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order :-gently flows

The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed

within it glows. Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse :

And now they change; a paler shadow shows Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang im

bues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest till—'tis gone-and all is

gray.

FLORIZEL'S PRAISE OF PERDITA,

BY SHAKESPEAR.

What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak

sweet, I'd have you do it ever: when you sing, I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms; Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs, To sing them too: When you do dance, I wish

you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own No other function: Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds That all your acts are queens.

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