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From the same author we have this charming lyric :

Down the dimpled greensward dancing bursts a faxen-headed bevy, Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy.

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Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, how they glimmer, how they quiver !
Sparkling one another after, like bright ripples on a river.
Tipsy band of rubious faces, Aushed with Joy's ethereal spirit,
Make your mocks and sly grimaces at Love's self, and do not

The following fine songs are from Sheridan's play of The Duenna:

Oh, had

my love ne'er smiled on me,
I ne'er had known such anguish;
But think how false, how cruel she,

To bid me cease to languish :
To bid me hope her hand to gain,

Breathe on a Aame half perish'd;
And then, with cold and fixed disdain,

To kill the hope she cherish’d.
Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,

That drove as winds did blow it,
Silent had left the shatter'd deck,

To find a grave below it.
Then land was cried—no more resign’d,

He glow'd with joy to hear it ;
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find

The wreck must sink ere near it!

Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast
Where love has been received a welcome guest;
As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made,
He hallows every heart he once has swayed ;
And when his presence we no longer share,
Still leaves compassion as a relic there.

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Logan's “ magical stanzas of picture, melody, and sentiment,” which Burke so much admired, addressed to the Cuckoo, are now before us : Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! thou messenger of Spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, and woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, or mark the rolling vear ?

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of Howers,
And hear the sound of music sweet from birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy wandering through the wood, to pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, and imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom, thou Aiest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands, another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year!
Oh, could I Ay, I'd Ay with thee! we'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o’er the globe, -companions of the Spring.

LEYDEN's celebrated Ode to an Indian Gold Coin, has attracted the especial notice and commendation of Colton and other critics. This remarkable poem was written in Cherical, Malabar ; the author having left his native land, Scotland, in quest of a fortune in India. He died shortly afterwards in Java :

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!

What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?

The tent-ropes Aapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm ;

The jackal's sbriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to cheer.

By Chérical's dark, wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams

Of Teviot loved, while still a child,

Of castled rocks, stupendous piled,
By Esk or Eden's classic wave;

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after-time.

Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

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Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?

From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey,

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! – Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay!

Another of Leyden's fine lyrics is that to the Evening Star :

How sweet thy modest light to view, fair star, to love and lovers dear! While trembling on the falling dew, like beauty shining through a

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Thine are the soft, enchanting hours when twilight lingers o'er the

plain, And whispers to the closing flowers, that soon the sun will rise again. Thine is the breeze, that, murmuring bland as music, wafts the

lover's sigh, And bids the yielding heart expand in love's delicious ecstasy. Fair star! though I be doom’d to prove that rapture's tears are mix’d

with pain, Ah, still I feel ʼtis sweet to love! but sweeter to be loved again!

Beattie's fine stanzas, descriptive of a morning landscape, commence thus:-

But who the melodies of morn can tell ?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ;
The lowing herd, the sheepfold's simple bell,

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley, echoing far and wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above,

The hollow murmur of the ocean tide,
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ;

Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks a-field; and, hark !

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ;

Through rustling corn the hare, astonished, springs ;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour,

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings,

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