Else whence comest thou, with this proud array
Of beauties to sprinkle the russet wood,
These Lent-lilies bending as if to pray,

And hyacinths fringing the marge of the flood?

And tell me whence cometh, my beautiful Spring,
Each star of the earth, each odorous thing,
These white-ruffled daisies with golden-dipped eyes,
These buttercups gleaming like summer-lit skies,
These violets adorned with rich purple and blue,
These primroses fragrant and innocent too;
And lastly, the sweetest and richest, I ween,

Of all thy fair daughters, my beautiful Spring,
The buddings that stud all thy pathways with green,
Say, where were they gathered to shake from thy
wing?

FOSTER GENIUS.

FOSTER Genius; ye who love it,
Train the shoot of native skill:
Ye can ne'er be genius-makers,
Yet ye may direct the will.

Ye can turn the stream which wanders
In an unfrequented way,
Till it through a country peopled
Rolls, a blessing every day.
Ye can make the drooping spirit,
Cooped up, like a cloistered nun,
Stretch her pinions like an eagle,
Soar, and gaze upon
the sun.

Foster Genius, e'en the humblest ;
"Tis a little jewel rare:

Purest gold, and gems most precious,

Oft the coarsest covering wear.

Rills, too small for swans to bathe in,

May refresh a tiny lark;

And the light of smallest taper

Can illuminate the dark.
See, that little spark ignoble
Sets a forest all on fire:
Emblem true of low-born genius,
Ever seeking to aspire.

Foster Genius, scatter blessing;
'Tis a high and noble deed;
'Tis a privilege. Ye shall gather
Crops from all its scattered seed.
Foster Genius, Heaven demands it,
Since it kindled first the flame.
Birds were never made for caging,
Souls are made for flight and fame.
WATT may thank his steaming kettle,
BUNYAN thank his prison hole,
Daisies nursed a BURNS's fancy,
Apples taught a NEWTON's soul.

Foster Genius, and the acorn

Shall become a tree of strength: Mighty things from small have risen ; Corals stretch an island's length.

Foster Genius, let collision

Bring the latent spark to view; And, as true men, ever render Honour where reward is due. Foster Genius, science asks it; Lightning words now travel free; But she points us to the future,

When a thought shall span a sea.

Honour Genius, men of England,

And your country's name shall live: Know, ye are more blessed in giving Than your brothers who receive. Foster it, and you shall witness

In this age a wonder wrought; Moral force shall be the weapon, Which shall battle do for thought. Give the people education,

Train the shoot of native skill, True! ye can't be genius-makers, But ye can direct the will.

MRS. CAROLINE GIFFARD PHILLIPSON.

THE accomplished writer of the following acceptable contributions to these pages is the authoress of a delightful volume of Poetry entitled " Lonely Hours," a metrical romance entitled "Eva," and several deservedly esteemed and well-known works of fiction. The chief characteristics of Mrs. Phillipson's writings are elegance of expression and chastity of thought. Of her first volume, writes a distinguished critic, "we only perform a mere act of justice when we assert that had such poetry as this been produced at the period when L. E. L. won her fame, even that celebrated authoress would have run great risk of her laurels." From "Eva, and other Poems," which well deserve the high encomiums they have received, we are enabled to give an extract.

INVOCATION.

ART thou near me, my beloved? Can I speak with thee?

Howsoever far removed thou art all to me!

When the moon's soft silver cloud-light mantles o'er the world,

Then I see thee in Heav'n's starlight with thy wings unfurl'd.

Breezily thy whisp'ring accents murmur to my heart, Telling of the realms of rapture where I feel thou art. Can my low, sad tones ascending pierce the mystic space

That doth veil the angel-beauty of that form and face? Are my falt'ring prayers borne upwards to th' Almighty's throne?

Will they win an answ'ring blessing? Tell me this, mine own!

Oh! I hear the wings of angels flapping downwards through the gloom :

And their starry eyes do chide me that I, earth-born, should presume

Thus to question of a spirit what the future hath in store;

And they shame me into silence with their mute reproaches, more

Than the conscience-tones within me, which, howe'er I strive to still,

Mutter contradictions ever to my hard determin'd will. I can see them—they are strangers, and they know me not, perchance,

Wherefore art thou not amongst them? come to bless me with thy glance;