No iron-crackling now is scored,
By dint of battle-axe or sword,
To find a vital place;—

Though certain Doctors will pretend
Awhile, before they kill a friend,
To labour through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
Crusader! errant squire, and Knight!
Our coats and customs soften ;-
To rise would only make ye weep—
Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep,
As in a safety coffin !

THOMAS HOOD.

A PRISONER'S CONTRAST.

THE light is disappearing through the dim,
And narrow window of my cell-'tis evening!
At this same hour of evening I have stood
Upon the borders of the mountain ridge
That skirts the plain of Seville: the broad sun

In full effulgence o'er a cloudless sky

Pour'd his last flood of brightness: the brown hills, The aloe hedge, the rhododendron wild,

The golden orange, and the purple grape,

All seemed as clothed in light; and now tis gone!

The God of day is vanish'd: a low bell
The general stillness breaks, but not offends;

All tongues are whispering prayer and thanks to heaven!
And soon again the light guitar is heard,

And aged grandsires with young hearts behold
The tender maidens that with graceful step,
Lead on the village dance.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL.

THE MUSIC OF NATURE.

THE joyous birds shrouded in cheareful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet;
The angelical, soft, trembling voices made
To th' instruments, divine respondence meet:
The silver-sounding instruments did meet ;
With the base murmur of the water's fall;
The water's fall with difference discreet

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
The gentle warbling wind low answered all!"

SPENSER.

WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!

WE might have been !—these are but common words,
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing;
They are the echo of those finer chords,
Whose music life deplores, when unavailing.

We might have been !

We might have been so happy, says the child,
Pent in the weary school-room during summer,
When the green rushes, 'mid the marshes wild,
And rosy fruits attend the radiant comer.

We might have been !

It is the thought that darkens on our youth,
When first experience-sad experience teaches
What fallacies we have believed for truth,

And what few truths endeavour ever reaches.

We might have been!

Alas! how different from what we are,

Had we but known the bitter path before us;

But feeling, hopes, and fancies, left afar,

What in the wide bleak world can e'er restore us?

We might have been!

It is the motto of all human things,—

The end of all that waits on mortal seeking;
The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings;
It is the cry of the worn heart, while breaking—
We might have been!

And when warm with the Heaven that gave it birth, Dawns on our world-worn way Love's hour Elysium, The last fair angel lingering on our earth,

The shadow of that thought obscures the vision,

We might have been!

A cold fatality attends on love,

Too soon, or else too late, the heart-beat quickens ; The star which is our fate springs up above,

And we but say—while round the vapour thickens―

We might have been !

Life knoweth no like misery,-the rest

Are single sorrows,-but in this are blended All sweet emotions that disturb the breast: The light that was our loveliest is ended.

We might have been!

Henceforth how much of the full heart must be
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble?

A still voice mutters, 'mid our misery,

The worst to hear-because it must dissemble

Life is made up of miserable hours;

And all of which we craved a brief possessing, For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and powers, Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing. We might have been !

The future never renders to the past

The young beliefs intrusted to its keeping. Inscribe one sentence-life's first truth, and last,On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping— We might have been!

L. E. L.

THE SWALLOWS.

CAPTIVE On the Moorish strand,
A warrior groan'd beneath his chain;
Swallows from his father-land

He saw come fiying o'er the main.

"Tell me, ye birds of hope!" he cried,
"Who hither from stern winter flee:

Ye saw my France in summer's pride,—
Looks she still fair?-sweet birds-come tell to me.

"Three years-three sad years, alas! I've linger'd here, a weary slave !—

Denizens of air! ye pass

Unrestrained o'er earth and wave!