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. 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, Of the deep Garonne, and a half And the peasant lank, shoes, 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 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 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 And he sank alone, With a feeble moan, And then all was told. But our pilot grey He had lost his boy! And the tear half hid ladyes; eke In soft Beauty's lid Stole forth unbid of I chasseur d'infanterie legere. Proutte And the feeling crept,- Olde Father But I mused alone, ralizeth Whom I well had known sadly mo anent ye birde. A newe ob ject calleth In his flight of Fame, And I saw him soar On the sought-for side, his eye from Lo! a vision new Caught his wayward view And that new-found wooer The bright child of air, This is ye morall of Father Prout's humble ballade, And adown the tide 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, 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." 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; That age of gold! yet nought availed To keep unsullied-unassailed The calm composure of a life Till then unchequered, What rude attempt befell? 'tis rife In Ovid's record. Poor shrinking maid-despairing, left Of brother's, father's aid bereft, She called on Dian's. "Queen of the spotless! quick, decree To die-ere I dishonoured be! 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- And onward to the sea-shore sped, Till the Ægean's briny bed When lo! was wrought for aye a theme Fresh and untainted ran that stream Proof against every wave's attempt From briny mixture still exempt, And thus it kept for many a mile Current, in which nor gall nor guile And all day long with on ward march And when night came, Diana's torch 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 The bright, time-honoured, glorious fount 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 Such be thy life-live on, live on! 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. 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; Voici l'hiver! voici le froid! 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; Au fronton d'un temple a Baalbec, 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 '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. |