While the wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep,

While the shepherd charms his sheep,
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skill;
Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor :

In vain you search, she is not there;

In vain you search the domes of care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain heads,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's side:

And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

With the exception of Gray's "Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard," perhaps no poem has been so frequently imitated as Dyer's "Grongar Hill;" and this is no marvel, for its beauties are manifold.

"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE."

THOMAS HOOD. FROM WHIMS AND ODDITIES."

I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore :-
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door :
So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock-
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock.

Now a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat:
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had question'd the stranger, and answer'd the door.

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;
For the moment will come when such comers must go :
So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing-
"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

LOVE.

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE, BORN AT WIGAN, IN
LANCASHIRE, JUNE 21, 1808.

LOVE is an odour from the heavenly bowers,
Which stirs our senses tenderly, and brings
Dreams which are shadows of diviner things
Beyond this grosser atmosphere of ours.
An oasis of verdure and of flowers,

Love smileth on the pilgrim's weary way;
There fresher airs, there sweeter waters play,
There purer solace speeds the quiet hours.
This glorious passion, unalloy'd, endowers
With moral beauty all who feel its fire;
Maid, wife, and offspring, brother, mother, sire,
Are names and symbols of its hallow'd powers.
Love is immortal:-from our hold may fly
Earth's other joys, but Love can never die !

FIRST LOVE.

FROM "THE MODERN ORLANDO," PUBLISHED ANONY. MOUSLY AT LONDON, IN 1846.

FEW hearts have never loved; but fewer still
Have felt a second passion; none a third!
The first was living fire; the next, a thrill!
The weary heart can never more be stirr'd;
Rely on it, the song has left the bird!

- All's for the best.-The fever and the flame,

The pulse, that was a pang; the glance, a sword; The tone, that shot like lightning through the frame, Can shatter us no more:-the rest is but a name !

ITs monks! Yet what have I to do with monks?
Cumberers of earth; but made to sleep and die;
In life's green forestry, the wither'd trunks;
(Not seldom "hogs of Epicurus' sty;")

I doubt if I should give a single sigh

If their whole race were in their churchyards flung.
How could I live and breathe (I'd scorn to try)
Without the silver sound of woman's tongue;
Life's sal volatile, that lyre for ever strung!

Three-fourths of all I saw were born to ploughs,
Or destined, spade in hand, to "mend our ways:"
But 'twas much pleasanter to make their vows
To walk the world in petticoats of baize ;
Living on alms; their years all holidays!
Huge caterpillars basking in the sun,
Or fixing, in wild reveries, their gaze

On the rich features of some sainted nun:

Rome, Rome! it is not thus that life's high deeds are

done.