THE WATER! THE WATER! THE water! the water! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth, through the quiet night, Its ever-living glee. The water! the water! That sleepless, merry heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly, And loveth to impart To all around it some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure. The water! the water! The gentle stream for me, That gushes from the old gray stone, Beside the alder tree. The water! the water! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and looked on while a child, And ask'd it whence it came and went, The water! the water! The merry, wanton brook, That bent itself to pleasure me, Like mine own shepherd crook. The water! the water! That sang so sweet at noon, And seeter still all night, to win s from the pale, proud moon, .rom the little fairy faces That gleam in heaven's remotest places. The water! the water! The dear and blessed thing, That all day fed the little flowers On its banks blossoming. The water! the water! That murmur'd in my ear Hymns of a saint-like purity, That angels well might hear; And whisper, in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. The water! the water! Where I have shed salt tears, The water! the water! Where I have happy been, And shower'd upon its bosom flowers Cull'd from each meadow green, And idly hoped my life would be The water! the water! My heart yet burns to think How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, Of mine own native glen; The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, The water! the water! The mild and glassy wave, Upon whose broomy banks I've long'd To find my silent grave. The water! the water! Oh bless'd to me thou art; And filling it, despite of sadness, The water! the water! The mournful, pensive tone, That whisper'd to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The water! the water! That roll'd so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave. JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wander'd east, I've wander'd west, The luve o' life's young day! O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Still fling their shadows ower my path, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. "Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, "Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! "Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sittin' on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, But in my wand'rings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd When the bright sun upon that spot is shining And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms When no star twinkles with its eye of glory And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary Will there be then one versed in misery's story It may be so, but this is selfish sorrow A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, And though thy bosom should with grief be swell- It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knellSad one, depart! [ing O AGONY! KEEN AGONY! O AGONY! keen agony, For trusting heart, to find That vows believed were vows conceived As light as summer wind. O agony! fierce agony, For loving heart to brook In one brief hour the withering power Of unimpassion'd look. O agony! deep agony, For heart that's proud and high, O agony! sharp agony To find how loth to part With the fickleness and faithlessness THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. THEY come! the merry summer months Of beauty, song, and flowers; They come the gladsome months that bring Up, up my heart! and walk abroad, Of patriarchal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky The grass is soft, its velvet touch Is grateful to the hand, And, like the kiss of maiden love, Are nodding courteously, It stirs their blood with kindest love And mark how with thine own thin locks They now are silver gray- That blissful breeze is wantoning, And whispering, "Be gay!" There is no cloud that sails along But hath its own wing'd mariners Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, Did breathe his own glad name;— The deep founts of the heart! For thought-crazed wight like me, To suck once more in every breath And feed my fancy with fond dreams Wander'd through green woods all day long, I'm sadder now, I have had cause; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, Still mingle music with my dreams, I AM NOT SAD. I AM not sad, though sadness seem I cherish'd once a foolish dream,— To feel 'twas right to bow I grieve not, though a tear may fill An idle gush, And all is hush, The fount is soon run dry: And cheerly now I meet my doom, I am not mad, although I see What shines may not be gold. No, no! content I court my doom, The darkness of a nameless tomb. The luck is theirs-the loss is mine, Who e'er could shun Touch with oblivion's pall? Brave temple and huge pyramid, The barrow acre-vast where hid BENEATH A PLACID BROW. BENEATH a placid brow, And tear-unstained cheek, To bear as I do now A heart that well could break; To simulate a smile Amid the wrecks of grief, To herd among the vile, And therein seek relief,- In nakedness confess'd?— To speak his sorrows rife ?— I scorn this hated scene Of masking and disguise, And truth hath never say; "Twere time the truth to tell,— "Twere time this world should cast Its infant slough away, And hearts burst forth at last THE CAVALIER'S SONG. A STEED, a steed of matchlesse speed! All else to noble heartes is drosse, The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; May tole from heaven an angel bright, Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants all, Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye Let piping swaine, and craven wight WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? WHAT is glory? What is fame? A stream that hurries on its way, The last drop of a bootless shower, O'er hill-top to more distant height, A bubble, blown by fond conceit, The witch-fire of a frenzied brain; THOMAS HOOD. THIS poet was born in London, in 1798. His father, a native of Scotland, was a bookseller and publisher. The subject of our biography was educated at an academy in Camberwell, and after taking a sea-voyage for the benefit of his health, was apprenticed to an uncle to learn the art of engraving. Some verses which he published meantime in the "London Magazine," attracted so much attention as to induce him to abandon the graver for the pen, and he has been since known as a man of letters. He is the author of "Whims and Oddities," "The Comic Annual," and other humorous productions, some of which have had an unparalleled popularity; and he is deserving of great reputation for his admirable compositions of a more serious description, of which we give liberal specimens. His longest poem, "The Plea of the Mid summer Fairies," was published in 1828, and is designed to celebrate by an allegory that immortality which SHAKSPEARE has conferred on the fairy mythology by his "Midsummer Night's Dream." "The Sylvan Fay," and "Ariel and the Suicide," in the following pages, are from this poem, and will give the reader an idea of its style. He soon after wrote "Tylney Hall," a novel, and on the death of THEODORE HOOK became editor of Colburn's "New Monthly Magazine," which he conducted until the beginning of the present year, when he established "Hood's Comic Miscellany," a monthly periodical of which the character is sufficiently indicated by its title. The striking lyric entitled "The Song of a Shirt," appeared but a few weeks ago, and is the latest of Mr. Hood's compositions which we have seen. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.* "T was in the prime of summer time, Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Away they sped with gamesome minds, To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, But the Usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest was apart, For a burning thought was in his brow, *The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher, subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem. So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees! Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book Much study had made him very lean, At last he shut the ponderous tome; He strain'd the dusky covers close, Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,- And, lo! he saw a little boy "My gentle lad, what is't you read- Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,"It is The Death of Abel."" The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, |