This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is fill'd with waters, that upstart,
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel it is wreath'd and crown'd,
Whose seed and foliage sun-embrown'd,
Are in its waters steep'd and drown'd,

And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers-
The fennel, with its yellow flowers;
And in an earlier

age
than

ours,
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,

A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's Goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colour'd waters less :
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give.

And he who has not learn'd to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe
With which its brim may overflow-

He has not learn'd to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light;
Through all that dark and desperate fight,
The blackness of that noonday night,
He ask'd but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
Be, too, for light-for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair
One half the human race.

ye

O suffering, sad humanity!
O afflicted ones, who lie
Steep'd to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried !
I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf;
The Battle of our Life is brief,
The alarm—the struggle—the relief

Then sleep we side by side!

THE DYING CHILD.

66

The following touching poem is extracted from a volume entitled The Village Paupers, by a Suffolk poet-Mr. FULCHER, of Sudburywhich was characterised by the Times as “containing passages worthy of Crabbe's happiest efforts.” It will be familiar to most of our readers, having appeared in Bernard Barton's Remains, and in many of our serials. We regret to record Mr. FULCHER's recent and sudden decease.

COME closer, closer, dear mamma,

My heart is fill'd with fears,
My eyes are dark,—I hear your sobs,

But cannot see your tears.

I feel your warm breath on my lips,

That are so icy cold;
Come closer, closer, dear mamma,

Give me your hand to hold.
I quite forget my little hymn,

6. How doth the busy bee,”
Which every day I used to say,

When sitting on your knee.

2

Nor can I recollect my prayers ;
And, dear mamma, you

know That the great God will angry be

If I forget them too.
And dear papa, when he comes home,

Oh will he not be vext?
“Give us this day our daily bread;"-

What is it that comes next ? “Hush darling! you are going to

The bright and blessed sky,
Where all God's holy children go,

To live with him on high.”.
But will he love me, dear mamma,

As tenderly as you ?
And will my own papa, one day,

Come and live with me too ?
But
you

must first lay me to sleep,
Where grand-papa is laid ;-
Is not the churchyard cold and dark,

And sha'nt I feel afraid ?
And will you every evening come,

And say my pretty prayer
Over poor Lucy's little grave,

And see that no one's there?
And promise me that when you die,

That they your grave shall make
Next unto mine, that I may be

Close to you when I wake ?
Nay do not leave me, dear mamma,

Your watch beside me keep;
My heart feels cold—the room's all dark,

Now lay me down to sleep :-
And should I sleep to wake no more,

Dear, dear mamma, good-bye :
Poor nurse is kind, but oh! do you

Be with me when I die!

.

THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.

Another of the musical ballads of Thomas Davis, the Irish poet, of whom a critic has truly said, that "the author unites within himself the combined qualities of Pindar, Sappho, and Alcæus, and engrafts the luxuriant fancy of the Persian poets on the wild vigour of the Scandinavian scald.”

'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily-
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.

Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies--
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes ;
The child of a peasant-yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff-
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step, like the red-deer's, go past---
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.

I saw her but once, and I look'd in her eye,
And she knew that I worshipp'd in passing her by ;
The saint of the wayside--she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.

I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly, “Again, love, we'll meet,
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.”

TO A SEAGULL.

By GERALD GRIFFIN, better known as the author of The Collegians, and other popular novels. White bird of the tempest! oh beautiful thing, With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing, Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high, Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky; Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form, Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm; Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn, Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome, Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam, Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, Like the spirit of charity brooding o'er pain; Now gliding with pinion, all silently furled, Like an angel descending to comfort the world ! Thou seem'st to my spirit, as upward I gaze, And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays ; Now lost in the storm-driven vapours that fly, Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky! Like a pure spirit true to its virtue and faith, Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death!

a

Rise! beautiful emblem of purity, rise !
On the sweet winds of Heaven, to thine own brilliant skies;
Still higher! still higher! till lost to our sight,
Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light;
And I think how a pure spirit, gazing on thee,
Must long for the moment—the joyous and free,
When the soul, disembodied, from nature shall spring,
Unfettered, at once to her Maker and King;
When, the bright day of service and suffering past,
Shapes, fairer than thine, shall shine round her at last,
While, the standard of battle triumphantly furl'd,
She smiles, like a victor, serene on the world !