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BOWLES, whose poetry enjoys the distinction of "having delighted and inspired the genius of Coleridge,"—thus portrays, with "Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring," South American Scenery :

Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain-tribes; high overhead
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires

A glen beneath a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime; the parrot-flocks
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by ;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers;
The wood-pecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look, the cataract, that bursts so high
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.
Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here its gay network and fantastic twine
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,
The sunshine darts its interrupted light,

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And, mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes,

With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.

These lines on Childhood are by MACKWORTH PRAED:—

Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play

Upon a bank of blushing flowers ;
Happy, he knew not whence or how ;

And smiling,-who could choose but love him?

For not more glad was Childhood's brow

Than the blue heaven that beamed above him.

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,

That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,

The birds were mute, the lilies faded;
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

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Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup,—

Full to the brim, of bitter water :

Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;

And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow,"

He said "Don't interrupt my game,—

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."

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Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,

And taught him, with most sage endeavour,

Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall,

And why no toy may last forever:

She talked of all the wondrous laws

Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood,—ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.
Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of glory's toils, ambition's schemes,

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies,
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from Seraph eyes,

And glimpses of remembered heaven!

MOTHERWELL, the Scottish poet, sketched his beautiful outline of Jeanie Morrison when only fourteen years of age. His plaintive and picturesque poetry has attracted the admiration of many, and especially that of Prof. Wilson. List to one of his lyrics :

Could love impart, by nicest art,

To speechless rocks a tongue, ·

Their theme would be, beloved, of thee,

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And clerk-like, then, with sweet amen,

Would echo from each hollow

Reply all day; while gentle fay,

With merry whoop, would follow.

Had roses sense, on no pretence

Would they their buds unroll;

For, could they speak, 'twas from thy cheek
Their daintiest blush they stole.

Had lilies eyes, with glad surprise,

They'd own themselves outdone,

When thy pure brow and neck of snow

Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks, by amorous looks,
Be taught a voice so rare,

Then, every sound that murmured round
Would whisper-" Thou art fair!".

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His lines on Summer are beautifully expressed :

They come the merry Summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers;

They come the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to

bowers;

Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

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There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody;

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red

gold;

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

The Gude-Wife, a touching little poem, by James Linen, of California, Mr. Bryant has pronounced not unworthy of Burns :—

I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife-I feel I'm growing auld;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared, my pow is unco bauld.
I've seen the snaws o' fourscore years o'er hill and meadow fa',
And, hinnie! were it no' for you, I'd gladly slip awa’.

I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife—I feel I'm growing auld;
Frae youth to age I've keepit warm the love that ne'er turned cauld

I canna bear the dreary thocht that we maun sindered be;

There's naething binds my poor auld heart to earth, gude-wife, but

thee.

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Here is a sweet, touching poem :

Sleep on, baby on the floor, tired of all thy playing

Sleep with smile the sweeter for that you dropped away in ;

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On your curls' fair roundness stand golden lights serenely;
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, folds the dimple inly-
Little head and little foot, heavy laid for pleasure;
Underneath the lids half-shut, plants the shining azure :

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