sound.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Et remigem cantus hortatur.

QUINTILIAN.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?—
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl.
But when the wind blows off the shore
Oh! sweetly we 'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers-
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs!
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past!

THOMAS MOORE.

EGYPTIAN SERENADE. SING again the song you sung When we were together youngWhen there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er,
Though I know that nevermore
Will it seem the song you sung
When we were together young.

GBORGE WILLIAM CURTIS,

The wind may be enunored of a flower,

The ocean of the green and laughing shore,
The silver lightning of a lofty tower-
But must not with too near a love adore;

Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower,

Love and delight shall with delight devour!

LORD THURLOW.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning-
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,

Sweet Pomander,

Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

JOHN SKELTON.

WHO IS SYLVIA?

WHO is Sylvia? what is she,
That all the swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise, is she;

681

The heavens such grace did lend her That she might adored be.

Is she kind, or is she fair?

For beauty lives with kindness. Love does to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindnessAnd, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing

That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring.

SHAKESPEARE

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less

Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her faceWhere thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

LORD BYEON

HERMIONE.

1Hоu hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free.
Eyes that are untouched by care:
What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione?

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire?
Hermione, Hermione?

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears-amid thy laughter seen,
Pity mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione!

BARRY CORNWALL

UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY.

DROOP, droop no more, or hang the head,
Ye roses almost withered!

New strength and newer purple get,
Each hero declining violet!

O primroses! let this day be

A resurrection unto ye,

And to all flowers allied in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood.
For health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled;
And those her lips do now appear
As beams of coral but more clear.
ROBERT HERRICK.

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestry

There's living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree.

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue-
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.
There's fairy tulips in the east-
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run;
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers:
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!

THOMAS Hoon.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
SWEET Highland girl! a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower;
Thrice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head.
And these gray rocks; that household lawr.
Those trees-a veil just half withdrawn:
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake:
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode-
In truth, together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream—
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep.
But, O fair creature! in the light
Of common day so heavenly bright---
I bless thee, vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;
For never saw I mien or face
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and homebred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here, scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness;

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread;
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech-
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life;
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind
Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee, who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell-
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality.
Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father-anything to thee!

Now thanks to heaven, that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place!
Joy have I had; and, going hence,

I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes.
Then why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her,
To give new pleasure like the past—
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall-
And thee, the spirit of them all!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands;

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring time from the cuckoo bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, or may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work
And o'er her sickle bending;-
I listened motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

685

WILLIAM WORDSWORTIL.

"PROUD MAISIE IS IN THE WOOD."

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?"
-"When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."