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THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA.

AN HUMBLE BALLAD.

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? yet not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father."-ST. MATTHEW, X. 29.

"Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna flumen."-JULIUS CÆSAR.
"Sermons in stones, and good in everything."--SHAKSPERE.
"Genius, left to shiver

On the bank, 'tis said,

Died of that cold river."-TOM MOORE.

River trip OH, 'twas bitter cold

from Thoulouse to Bourdeaux, Thermometer at 0. Snow 1 foot

deep. Use of wooden

Not ye famous alba

'Twas a stranger drest

As our steam-boat roll'd tross of that In a downy vest,
Down the pathway old

Of the deep Garonne,

and a half And the peasant lank,
While his sabot sank
In the snow-clad bank,
Saw it roll on, on.

shoes,

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aincient mariner olde Coleridge, but a poore robin.

'Twas a wee Red-breast, (Not an "Albatross,") But a wanderer meek, Who fain would seek O'er the bosom bleak

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Ye Streame And well would it seem of Lyfe. A

younge man That o'er Life's dark of fayre promise. stream, Easy task for Him

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Hys earlie flyght across

Just one ripple gave

ye streame.

Ye old man

at ye helm

weepeth for in ye bay of

a sonne lost

Biscaye.

Condole

ance of ye

As it oped him a grave
In its bosom cold,

And he sank alone,

With a feeble moan,
In that deep Garonne,

And then all was told.

But our pilot grey
Wiped a tear away;
In the broad Biscaye

He had lost his boy!
That sight brought back
On its furrow'd track
The remember'd wreck
Of long perish'd joy!

And the tear half hid

ladyes; eke In soft Beauty's lid Stole forth unbid

of I chasseur d'infanterie legere.

Proutte

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And the feeling crept,-
For a Warrior wept ;
And the silence kept
Found no fitting word.

Olde Father But I mused alone,
For I thought of one

ralizeth

Whom I well had known

sadly mo

anent ye birde.

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A newe ob

ject calleth

In his flight of Fame,
Was the Skyward Path
O'er the billow's wrath,
That for Genius hath
Ever been the same.

And I saw him soar
From the morning shore,
While his fresh wings bore
Him athwart the tide,
Soon with powers unspent
As he forward went,
His wings he had bent

On the sought-for side,
But while thus he flew,

his eye from Lo! a vision new
ye maine
chaunce.

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Caught his wayward view
With a semblance fair,

And that new-found wooer
Could, alas! allure
From his pathway sure

The bright child of air,

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This is ye morall of Father Prout's

humble ballade,

And adown the tide
For a brief hour plied

His yet unspent force. And to gain that goal Gave the powers of soul Which, unwasted, whole, Had achieved his course.

A bright Spirit, young,
Unwept, unsung,
Sank thus among

The drifts of the stream; Not a record left,

Of renown bereft,

By thy cruel theft,

O DELUSIVE DREAM.

L'ENVOY TO W. H. AINSWORTH, ESQ.

WHILOME, AUTHOR OF THE ADMIRABLE "CRICHTON," SUBSEQUENT CHRONICLER OF "JACK SHEPPARD."

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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ARETHUSA, M-▬r G- -W

A SHEPHERDESS of Arcadie,

In the days hight olden,

Fed her white flock close to the sea;
"Twas the age called golden.

That age of gold! yet nought availed
To save from rudeness,

To keep unsullied-unassailed
Such gentle goodness.

The calm composure of a life

Till then unchequered,

What rude attempt befell? 'tis rife

In Ovid's record.

Poor shrinking maid-despairing, left
Without reliance;

Of brother's, father's aid bereft,

She called on Dian's.

"Queen of the spotless! quick, decree
The boon I ask you!

To die-ere I dishonoured be!
Speed to my rescue."

Sudden beneath her footsteps oped

The daisied meadow;

The passionate arms that wildly groped,

Grasped but a shadow.

Forth from the soil where sank absorbed

That crystal virgin,

Gushed a bright brook-pure, undisturbed-
With pebbly margin

And onward to the sea-shore sped,
Its course fulfilling ;

Till the Ægean's briny bed
Took the bright rill in.

When lo! was wrought for aye a theme
Of special wonder;

Fresh and untainted ran that stream
The salt seas under.

Proof against every wave's attempt
To interfuse it;

From briny mixture still exempt,
It flowed pellucid.

And thus it kept for many a mile
Its pathway single;

Current, in which nor gall nor guile
Could ever mingle.

And all day long with on ward march
The streamlet glided;

And when night came, Diana's torch
The wanderer guided;

Till unto thee, sweet Sicily,

From doubt and danger,

From land and ocean's terrors free,

She led the stranger;

And there gushed forth, the pride and vaunt
Of Syracusa,

The bright, time-honoured, glorious fount
Of Arethusa.

O ladye, such be thy career,

Such be thy guidance;

From every earthly foe and fear

Such be thy riddance!

Safe from the tainted evil tongue

Of foes insidious;

Brineless the bitter waves among
Of "friends" perfidious.

Such be thy life-live on, live on!
Nor couldst thou choose a

Name more appropriate than thine own,

Fair Arethusa!

F. M.

THE LADYE OF LEE.

'There's a being bright, whose beams

Light my days and gild my dreams,

Till my life all sunshine seems-'tis the ladye of Lee.
Oh! the joy that Beauty brings,

While her merry laughter rings,

And her voice of silver sings-how she loves but me!

There's a grace in every limb,

There's a charm in every whim,

And the diamond cannot dim-the dazzling of her e'e

But there's a light amid

All the lustre of her lid,

That from the crowd is hid-and only I can see,

'Tis the glance by which is shown

That she loves but me alone;

That she is all mine own-this ladye of Lee.

Then say, can it be wrong,

If the burden of my song

Be, how fondly I'll belong to this ladye of Lee?

LIFE, A BUBBLE.-A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW THEREOF.

La pluie au bassin fait des bulles;
Les hirondelles sur le toit
Tiennent des conciliabules

Voici l'hiver! voici le froid!
Elles s'assemblant par centaines,
Se concertant pour le depart,
L'unê dit, Oh que dans Athènes

Il fait bon sur le vieux rempart. Tous les ans j'y vais, et je niche

Aux metopes du Parthenon: Mon nid bouche dans la corniche Le trou d'un boulet de canon.

L'autre, J'ai ma petite chambre

A Smyrne au plafond d'un café;
Les Hadjis comptent reur grains d'ambre
Sur le seuil d'un rayon chauffe,
Celle ci, J'habite un trigliphe

Au fronton d'un temple a Baalbec,
Je m'y suspends par ma griffe
Sur mes petits a large bec.

A la seconde cataracte,

Dit la dernière, j'ai mon nid,

J'en ai noté la place exacte,

Dans le cou d'un roi de granit.

THEO. GAUTIER, 19th Sept. Moniteur.

Down comes rain drop, bubble follows
On the house top one by one
Flock the synagogue of swallows,
Met to vote that autumn's gone.
There are hundreds of them sitting,
Met to vote in unison;
They resolve on general flitting.

'I'm for Athens off," says one.

"Every year my place is filled in Plinth of pillared Parthenon, Where a ball has struck the building Shot from Turk's besieging gun." "As for me, I've got my chamber

O'er a Smyrna coffee-shop, Where his beadroll, made of amber. Hadji counts, and sips a drop." "I prefer Palmyra's scantlings, Architraves of lone Baalbec, Perched on which I feed my bantlings As they ope their bonnie beak."

While the last, to tell her plan, says,

"On the second cataract

I've a statue of old Ramses,

And his neck is nicely crack'd."

20th Sept. Globe.

F. M.

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