VALLE OMBROSA.

THE pathway narrows as the steps ascend,
The boughs o'erarching meet in fond embrace,
The fragile branches of the birch-tree bend,
And with majestic chestnuts interlace;
Boldly the indented leaves with spiral grace,
Come sharply out from the Italian Blue,
Rising from storied vale, in tones of silver hue.

It is enchantment all!-the very air

Is pregnant with delight, that fans these bowers
And breathes new life! Here languid frames repair,
Faint and o'ercome by summer's sultry hours,
Which in the plain enervates and devours

The mind's strong energies and sinks them low; A weight oppressive 'numbs the healthful powers, Which prompt to action and keen joys bestow, The vital springs relax, the spirits lose their glow.

Valle Ombrosa! to each British mind,
Thy leaf-strewn path with tenfold charms appear;
For in the sighing of thy spicy wind,

Methinks the strain of Milton's lay I hear,
That sacred harmony from heaven's own sphere,
Which far below leaves all the choral throng;
And, wrapt in mute attention, I revere
The peerless leader of the world of song,

Fearing my voice of praise should do him "living wrong."

Methinks the beauteous mask was acted here,
Where all its scenic structure may be found;
Here 'mong the basky shades, fresh water clear,
Starts into magic life from forth the ground;
While echo, courted thus, returns sweet sound,
Waking lone Silence with her dulcet strain;
And, as the gushing waterfalls rebound,
They drop again in shadows of diamond rain;
Sure Comus and his crew to revel here were fain!

LADY CHARLOTTE BURY.

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT.

THE lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
No vacant space for lated wight is found:
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's soft archery.

Hush'd is the din of tongues, on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold-spur, and light poised lance,

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
And lowly bending to the lists advance;

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

In costly sheen, and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade

The lord of lowing herds; but not before

The ground with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steedAlas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion! lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe :
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro

His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

eye

Sudden he stops; his is fix'd: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time, to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career,

With well-timed croup the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes! Streams from his flanks the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; Another hideous sight! unseam'd appears, chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharın'd he bears.

His

gory

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray:

And now the Matadores around him play,

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:

Once more through all he bursts his thundering

way

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies;
He stops he starts-disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears-on high

The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyesFour steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by!

LORD BYRON.

THE HERMIT.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove :
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit began ;
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a Sage, though he felt as a Man.

"Ah why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And Sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral.