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Thither he ran, and he bent him low,
As ever fairy had paddled in,
And shone with silvery pearl within ;
No American can forget that to Drake we are indebted for our National Ode, which commences,
When Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
Another of our American bards, SPRAGUE, has given us the following sweet bird-song : suggested by seeing two swallows Aying into a church in Boston :
Gay, guiltless pair, what seek ye from the fields of heaven?
* The poem by which this author is most known, entitled Curiosity, has a singular history. Griswold states that it was published in Calcutta a few years ago as an original production by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised. Now listen to the following song :
Day, in melting purple dying,
Ye but waken my distress;
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure,
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee !
Yet but torture, if comprest
These glowing stanzas, from Mrs. Brooks's Zophiel,--an exquisite story of a Jewish exiled maiden and her lovers,--exhibit the style of the authoress, whom Southey designated, in The Doctor, as “the most impassioned and imaginative of poetesses."
Turn we for a moment to a sweet, familiar ditty-known to all lovers of lyric verse,—'tis about the little sanctuary of Home :
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Home, home, sweet home!
Every person knows that sweet household lyric; but it is not every one who has heard the life-story of its author. That immortal song, so brim-full of tender pathos and natural feeling, would cause many to drop a tear of sympathy over the sad fate of its author, HOWARD PAYNE, were they to be told that,-an American adventurer in the heart of Paris, Vienna, and London, while hearing
persons singing his own beautiful lines on the pleasures of home, he was not only denied the possession of one himself, but was even destitute of the necessaries of life.
The following beautiful little lyric is from the pen of GENERAL BURGOYNE, of our Revolutionary annals :
When first this humble roof I knew,
With various care I strove;
My all of life was love.
By mutual toil our board was dressed,
The spring our drink bestowed ;
The cup with nectar Aowed !
Content and peace the dwelling shared,
No other guest came nigh ;
What gold could never buy.
No value has a splendid lot,
But as the means to prove,
The all of life is love.
Here is Darwin's sweet Song to May :
Born in yon blaze of orient sky,
Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold;
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.
For thee descends the sunny shower ;