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SONGS FOR EVENING MUSIC. *
BY MRS. HEMANS.
YE ARE NOT MISS'D, PAIR FLOWERS.
Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer's glow by fount and dreary grot;
O Lily! whence thy cup of pearl hath gone ;
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
A joy to all; yet, yet ye are not miss'd !
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,-
To say, Earth's human flowers not more are miss'd ?
We found the warrior lying,
Dark and still
Was every hill,
To a lowly bed we bore him;
There make moan,
Our sad thoughts oft are flying
* These words are all appropriated to music, and will be published separately by Messrs. Willis and Co.
To those dark hills far away,
On his breast
A banner prest,
Willow, sighing willow !
Willow, sighing willow !
Willow, sighing willow!
Ever, willow, willow !
Brightly didst thou part;
With thy bounding heart ! Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere by dust o'erspread.
Be about thee shed !
O'er thy gentle head.
Brightly thou hast fled !
Sing words from Tasso's lay;
Night seems but softer day.
As if it paused to hear
Sing to me, Gondolier !
Proud spirits of the brave;
The silence of the wave!
Closed the bright pageants here;
From the mournful Gondolier !
VI. The Rock BESIDE THE SEA. Oh! tell me not the woods are fair,
Now Spring is on her way;—.
In joy, the young leaves play;
The violet's breath may be ;-
My lone Rock by the Sea.
The curlew's restless cries,
Than all earth's melodies.
There's but one place for me
My lone Rock by the Sea !
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. Bring from the grove an orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow, And bind it, mother! on my breast, When I am laid in dreamless rest... The myrtle that I loved hath died, Blighted, like me, in vernal pride! The rose looks all too festive now, Bring from the grove an orange-bough!
The grove along the sunny shore,
I pine, I pine for thee!
And set my spirit free !
In twilight languor steep;
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
Sleep, gentle Sleep!-but bring
No visions on thy wing!
To birds, in forests deep ;-
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
LEAVE ME NOT YET !
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
-Leave me not yet!
Heard through the shivery woods, but now arise; Their sweet sounds mingle not with daylight dreams, They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies :
Leave me not yet!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
- Leave me not yet!
SKETCHES FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF A MEDICAL
[It has been justly remarked, by an accomplished Edinburgh Professor, himself one of the most successful chroniclers of the day, that the practice of medicine is a mine full of interesting and important matter, highly valuable to the periodical writer, but hitherto little explored by him. The incidents related in the ensuing pages are gleaned from the writer's own practice, and are entirely founded in fact; although in narrating them he has scrupulously endeavoured to avoid fixing the identity of the parties, in all instances where his doing so could have been in any way construed into a breach of professional confidence.]
No. I.-THE GODDESS OF REASON. It was towards the close of the day, in the summer of the year 184, which I passed at Naples, that I was requested, by a British merchant residing in that city to visit the master of a vessel consigned to him, who had been attacked with indisposition. The day was sultry hot, accompanied by the scirocco which passes over from the burning sands of Africa, bearing with it numberless saline and acrid particles, which occasioned the most oppressive and uneasy sensations; towards its close, however, a breeze had sprung up from the land, which rendered the air somewhat cooler, though it occasioned but little agitation of the clear, blue, and tideless waters of the bay. The prospect at this moment, as I rode slowly along the Chiaja, was so delightful,
that, I fear, no description I could give would do justice to it. The broad disk of the sun was just sinking into the wave, and exhibited, in mellowed and harmonious traits, the different features of the prospect, gilding with its last rays
the dark outline of the Castle of St. Elmo, which crowns the summit of the high amphitheatre of hills surrounding the city, and which are themselves surmounted in the distance by the snow-capped heads of the Apennines. From the castle and down to the Chiaja, the precipitous descent was covered with vineyards and orangeries, which afforded a delicate and perfect relief to the town which reposed beneath them. In front of the Chiaja, and extending its whole length, were the gardens of the Villa Reale, laid out with the most exquisite taste, and exhibiting in their walks some of the most splendid specimens of ancient sculpture; such as the celebrated group of the Toro Farnese, which represents Amphion and Zethus, the sons of Lycus, King of Thebes, tying Dirce by the hair of her head to the horns of a bull. And lastly came the Bay itself, extending, with its broad, glassy, and transparent surface, for a circuit of thirty miles, bound in on the right by the promontory of Pausilippo, on which stands the wild tomb of the poet Virgil, and on the left by the promontory of Sorrento, anciently called Syrentum, from its enchanting situation, where stands, built upon a cliff, the paternal mansion of another celebrated poet, Torquato Tasso; whilst in the centre, and about midway between the two promontories, rose the huge island of Caprea, which acted like an enormous mole, breaking the force of the sea, and rendering this large portion of the Mediterranean as tran