When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,
Fair as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!

CATHERINE ORKNEY.

CHARLES LAMB.

Canadia! boast no more the toils
Of hunters for the furry spoils;
Your whitest ermines are but foils

To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst

From climes with rigorous winter curst !-
We bless you, that so kindly nurst
This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display
Of lake-wood-vast Niagara :

Your greatest pride we've borne away,

How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
To your reproach no more we tell :
Canadia, you repaid us well

With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share : You've scarce a native maid so fair,

So good, as Catherine Orkney.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Born 1792-Died 1822.

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the river with the ocean;
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;
All things, by a law divine,
In another's being mingle ;-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven, And the waves clasp one another! No leaf or flower would be forgiven, If it disdain'd to kiss its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all those kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR,

P. B. SHELLEY.

I rise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright; I rise from dreams of thee,

And a Spirit in my feet

Has led me--who knows how?
To thy chamber window sweet.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark and silent stream,
The Champak odours fall

Like sweet thoughts in a dream.
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must upon thine,
Beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail;
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white alas !

My heart beats loud and fast; Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

TO ELLEN.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Though time has not wreathed
My temples with snow,
Though age hath not breathed
A spell o'er my brow,
Yet care's wither'd fingers
Press on me with pain;
The fleeting pulse lingers,
And lingers in vain.

The eyes which behold thee,

Their brightness is flown; The arms which enfold thee, Enfeebled are grown : And friendship hath left me, By fortune estranged;

All, all is bereft me,

For thou, too, art changed!

Yes, dark ills have clouded
The dawning in tears;
Adversity shrouded

By ripening years,

Life's path wild and dreary,
Draws nigh to its close ;-
Heart-broken and weary
I sigh for repose.

The world shall caress thee

When I cease to be;

And suns rise to bless thee
Which smile not for me:
And hearts shall adore thee,
And bend at thy shrine,
But none bow before thee
So truly as mine.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Dear is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there, Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.