And, all forgetful of my sorrow, unmindful of my pain,
I think she has but newly left me, and soon will come again.
She stays without, perchance, a moment, to dress her dark brown hair;
I hear the rustle of her garments-her light step on the stair!
O fluttering heart! control thy tumult, lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture her coming brings to me!
She tarries long-but lo! a whisper beyond the open door-
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, a shadow on the floor!
Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, the vine whose shadow

strays;

And my patient heart must still await her, nor chide her long delays. But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, as many a time before; Her foot is ever at the threshold, yet never passes o'er.

ROBERT LOWELL's beautiful poems evince great originality and power take, for instance, his lines entitled Our Inland Summer Nightfall:-

Within the twilight came forth tender snatches

Of birds' songs, from beneath their darkened eaves;
But now a noise of poor ground-dwellers matches

This dimness: neither loves, nor joys, nor grieves.
A piping, slight and shrill, and coarse, dull chirpings fill
The ear, that all day's stronger, finer music leaves.
From this smooth hill, we see the vale below, there,
And how the mists along the stream-course draw:
By day, great trees from other ages grow there,
A white lake now, that daylight never saw.

It hugs in ghostly shape the Old Deep's shore and cape,

All

As when, where night-hawks skim, swam fish with yawning maw. grows more cool, though night comes slowly over,

And slowly stars stand out within the sky!

The trampling market-herd and way-sore drover
Crowd past with seldom cries,-their halt now nigh.

They sang of love, and not love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recalled. a

But all

different name, "Annie Lawrie"!

Bayard Taylor,

From out some lower dark comes up a dog's short bark;
There food and welcome rest, there cool, soft meadows lie.
The children, watching by the roadside wicket,

Now houseward troop, for Blind-man's-Buff or Tag ;
Here chasing, sidelong, fire-flies to the thicket,

There shouting, with a grass-tuft reared for flag. They claim this hour from night :

But with a sure, still sleight,

The sleep-time clogs their feet, and one by one they lag.

And now the still stars make all heaven sightly :

One, in the low west, like the sky ablaze;
The Swan, that with her shining Cross floats nightly,
And Bears that slowly walk along their ways.

There is the golden Lyre, and there the Crown of fire:
Thank God for nights so fair to these bright days!

THACKERAY'S lines, At the Church Gate, are daintily put:

Although I enter not, yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;

And, near the sacred gate, with longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster-bell tolls out above the city's rout,
And noise and humming.

They've hushed the minster-bell; the organ 'gins to swell;
She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast; she comes,-she's here, she's past May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there, to sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,-

Like outcast spirits, who wait, and see, through Heaven's gate,

Angels within it.

What a grand, heroic movement is there in MACAULAY'S celebrated lay of the Huguenots, entitled Ivry; we can only give two

stanzas:

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!