They rang the sailor lads to guide And yet the ruddy beacon glowed: And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; Ere yet the early dawn was clear. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, To manye more than myne and mee: Than (By permission of the Author.) 18.-UNDER CANVAS.-WOUNDED. HON. HENRY BULWER LYTTON. [Son of the eminent novelist, Lord Lytton, and worthy of his high literary parentage, Mr. Bulwer writes genuine poetry. His lines are full of music and tenderness; and his subjects, though generally drawn from nature, are placed in dramatic situations by a skilful hand. His published poems are 66 The Wanderer," "Clytemnestra," and "Lucile," from which the following is extracted.] "OH is it a phantom? a dream of the night? Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain, But it is not the wind That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind A pale woman enters, By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands Thro' the racked weary frame: and throughout it, he feels And he sleeps: he is sleeping. "He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : Revering Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly A whisper serene Slid softer than silence-"The Sour Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. Thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!' He sleeps: he is sleeping. "He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning He said, If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 'Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing "Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou?' 'O son 'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One 'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead: "To thee, and to others, alive yet'—she said So long as there liveth the poor gift in me "Of this ministration: to them, and to thee, 'Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation 'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. She bent down to smoothe The hot pillow, and added--' Yet more than another 'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 'I know them-I know them.' 'Oh can it be? you! 'My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew, 'You know them ?' She bow'd half averting, her head In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, 'Do they know I am thus ?' 'Hush!'-she smiled, as she drew From her bosom two letters: and-can it be true? He burst Into tears-'My poor mother, my father! the worst 'Will have reached them!' 6 'No, no!' she exclaim'd with a smile, And he sleeps, he is sleeping. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.) 19.-THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE. MRS. MACLEAN (L. E. L.) [Elizabeth Letitia Landon was born in Chelsea, 1802; she was the daughter of an army agent, but her father dying, she not only maintained herself, but assisted her relations by the efforts of her pen. Her earliest poems were contributed (1834) to the "Literary Gazette." She subsequently published "The Improvisatrice," "The Venetian Bracelet," "The Golden Violet," and "The Vow of the Peacock," and other poems; and three novels, entitled, "Romance and Reality," "Francesca," and "Ethel Churchill," improving as she went on in vigour and depth of thought, and giving promise of a high literary career which was not to be realized. In 1838 she married Mr. George Maclean, the Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and proceeded with him to his solitary African home. On Oct. 16, 1838, she was found dead in her room; in her hand a bottle which had contained prussic acid. It was conjectured that she had undesignedly taken an overdose of the fatal medicine, as a relief for spasms in the stomach.] SHE sat beside the rock from which arose A mountain rivulet's blue wanderings; And there, with careless hand, cast leaves and flowers M To float upon the surface, or to sink, As the wind listed, for she took no heed, Nor watch'd their progress. Suddenly she ceased, And boding fears in every change and chance. Of good between them.-There they leant, while hours Yet art thou touch'd by heaven, though only touch'd,— Thy pleasures are but rainbows, which unite The glad heavens with thee in their transient beauty, Then melt away again upon the clouds. O youth, and love, which is the light of youth. Why pass ye as the morning ?-life goes on, And afterwards in fear of each rough gale, Who is there, though young still, yet having lost The warmth, the freshness, morning's dew and light, When faith made its own happiness, and the heart Its best affections forth so trustingly, 66 'Twas Agatha broke the sweet silence first: The gathering, Herman, of your hardy troops: truth You led them, mounted on your snow-white steed.— She spoke in mirth; yet as she spoke, her words In silence Herman took her hand, and gazed Within his utmost soul. A brow more fair To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she there Long days have pass'd-that evening star hath left A few short words will tell what change has wrought In their once love; it is a history That would suit half mankind. In its first spring,For the heart has its spring of bud and bloom |