The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved, The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— ELEONORA. ANONYMOUS. Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed For we are the same our fathers have been; ELEGY ON THE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON. No single virtue we could most commend, A wife as tender, and as true withal, The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would Thus we love God, as author of our good. think; Yet unemployed no minute slipped away; Her fellow-saints with busy care will look They died, ay they died: and we things that The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, But 't was her Saviour's time; and could there be As precious gums are not for lasting fire, She vanished, we can scarcely say she died; JOHN DRYDEN. FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER. " FROM THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." FAREWELL,-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, ["A lady of the name of Helen Irving or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfries How light was thy heart till love's witchery shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentle came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute dition, although it has been alleged that he was blowing, And hushed all its music and withered its frame! men in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped traa Bell of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly ap But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nanght but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid."- SIR WALTER SCOTT.] I WISH I were where Helen lies! A poacher's widow sat sighing On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloomy fir-woods, One spot in the lea throve rank. She watched a long tuft of clover, She thought of the dark plantation, And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation Rose up to the throne of God. "I am long past wailing and whining,— I have wept too much in my life : I've had twenty years of pining As an English laborer's wife. "A laborer in Christian England, Where they cant of a Saviour's name, And yet waste men's lives, like the vermin's, For a few more brace of game. "There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, There's blood on your pointer's feet; There's blood on the game you sell, squire, And there's blood on the game you eat. "You have sold the laboring man, squire, "You made him a poacher yourself, squire, "When, packed in one recking chamber, Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed, And the walls let in the day. "When we lay in the burning fever, On the mud of the cold clay floor, Till you parted us all for three months, squire, At the cursed workhouse door. “We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders! "Our daughters, with base-born babies, Have wandered away in their shame ; If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, Your misses might do the same. |