THE FATE OF THE OAK. BRYAN WALTER PROCTER. FROM ENGLISH SONGS, AND OTHER SMALL POEMS, BY BARRY CORNWALL." 1832. THE Owl to her mate is calling; The river his hoarse song sings; But the Oak is mark'd for falling, That has stood for a hundred springs. A third, and the wood's dark hollows His arms from their trunk are riven, In chains to the strong dockyard: And he's caulk'd and pitch'd, and burn'd, P Oh! now,-- with his wings outspread And wrap him in flaming pride; And when he has fought, and won, And been honour'd from shore to shore; Save a rhyme and a short-lived name, And to mix with the common mould! A LOVE SONG. GEORGE DARLEY. SWEET in her green dell the Flower of Beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair. Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air? Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming, To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from above. O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love' Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eye-lids at the dream of my lay; Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away! Come, then, my Bird! for the peace thou ever bearest, We should hardly have permitted to die in comparative obscurity, one of the most delicious versifiers and most fanciful poets of any day--George Darley. As his very name will be strange to many who read this, and as my praise may therefore excite suspicion in those who conceive themselves well read in poetry, I have justified myself by the above specimen of a song of the right quality; a love-song, but how different from the opera trash with which we have been deluged !-H. F. Chorley. LINES, On hearing that the Mayor of Bath had been requested to exert his authority, and prevent shaving on Sundays! Q. IN THE CORNER, FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE." THOU shalt not shave on Sundays; to be saved. Whilst they preserve suct Are men more pure in deeu. as Oh! impious question. of So much they strive to pr Each holy har Gera Hairs left to Loure And miast those e Small birds of pala.. Their system ar New paths of pas And all we 3 . o'er. |