THE DESERT-THIRST. TILL o'er the wilderness. The sound of the wind arose anon, Settled the moveless mist. That scattered the thick mist, The timid antelope that And, lo! at length the lovely face of heaven! heard their steps Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light; t The ostrich, blindly has tening, met them full. At night again in hope Young Thalaba lay down; The morning came, and not one guiding ray Through the thick mist was visibleThe same deep moveless mist that mantled all. Oh for the vulture's scream, Who haunts for prey the abode of humankind! Oh for the plover's pleasant cry, To tell of water near! Oh for the camel-driver's song! For now the water-skin grows light, Though of the draught, more eagerly desired, Alas! a wretched scene Was opened on their view. They looked around: no wells were near, No tent, no human aid. Flat on the camel lay the water-skin, And their dumb servant, difficultly now, Over hot sands and under the hot sun, Dragged on with patient pain. But oh the joy, the blessed sight, When in that burning waste the travellers Saw a green meadow fair with flowers besprent, Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields Of England, when amid the growing grass The bluebell bends, the golden king-cup shines, And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air, In the merry month of May! Oh, joy! The travellers Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst, Gaze on each other with hope-brightened Oft from the third night's broken sleep, As in his dreams he heard Another day passed on: A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. AS, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home, Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, Till on some neighboring mountain's brow He stops and turns his eyes below, There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear and bids adieu,So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move with doubtful mind, Oft stop and often look behind." Companion of my tender age, By verdant hill or shady grove, Me wrangling courts and stubborn law Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry and riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold, Or where in silence all is drowned Fell Murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you, Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! Shakespeare, no more thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: In furs and coifs around me stand; Oh let me pierce the secret shade And other doctrines thence imbibe Thus, though my noon of life be past, Thus to the grave I wore my bridal robe, And I rivalled its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair: How I hated their brightness! As the bride of another. And a fair girl was near him; Once 'twas mine, and mine only; I wept, for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely. And all the bells are ringing round- I at my study-window sit, But, though impressions calm and sweet The teardrop stands in either eye, Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pur- And yet I cannot tell thee why: suit : She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away Like mortal life or pleasure's rayDoes that disturb my breast? Nay! what have I, a studious man, So the struck eagle, stretched upon the To do with life's unstable plan plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Or pleasure's fading vest? Is it that here I must not stop, yon Must bend my lonely way? No-surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there With music sweet shall fill the air When thou no more canst hear? Oh no! oh no! for then, forgiven, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding I shall be with my God in heaven, breast. LORD BYRON. * Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such Released from every fear. Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad; And so the teardrop fills my eye, beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret When yet, in truth, I know not why that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. Or wherefore I am sad. Public Library Hamilton Grange Branch, WENT HENRY KIRKE WHITE Her fair and gracious forehead she uplifts, And with one smile doth her dominion gain. Many and many are the mighty great Who by their souls' strength and the strength of deeds Have swayed, have monarchized, o'er earth and fate, TWI Translation of LADY E. STUART WORTLEY. THE RABBI'S JEWELS. WILIGHT was deepening with a tinge As toward his home in Israel's sheltered vales And gained the conqueror's fame and The holy man his peaceful threshold passed glory's meeds; But these, too, these have nobly shone with out The vain fictitious glitter of the crown, Circled by splendors far more bright about The splendors of their own sublime renown. Thus woman needeth not the crown's poor pride: With hasting step. The evening meal was spread, And she who from life's morn his heart had shared Breathed her fond welcome. Bowing o'er The blessing of his fathers' God he sought, She reigns-she reigns where'er her smile "And let me bless them ere their hour of |