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THE BLUE HARE-BELL*.

HAVE ye ever heard in the twilight dim,
A low, soft strain,

That ye fancied a distant vesper hymn,
Borne o'er the plain

By the zephyrs that rise on perfumed wing,
When the sun's last glances are glimmering?

Have ye heard that music, with cadence sweet,
And merry peal,

Ring out, like the echoes of fairy feet,
O'er flowers that steal?

And did ye deem that each trembling tone
Was the distant vesper-chime alone?

The source of that whispering strain I'll tell;
For I've listened oft

To the music faint of the Blue Hare-bell,
In the gloaming soft;

'Tis the gay fairy-folk the peal who ring,
At even-time for their banqueting.

* These exquisitely beautiful lines have been selected from a volume, recently published by Mr. Tilt, entitled "Poems, with Illustrations, by Louisa Anne Twamley." A young lady, who, at the age of twenty, is a Poet, a Painter, and her own Engraver.

And gaily the trembling bells peal out,
With gentle tongue,

While elves and fairies career about,
'Mid dance and song.

Oh, roses and lilies are fair to see;

But the wild Blue-bell is the flower for me.

LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY.

ON A TIME-PIECE.

WITH A FIGURE OF TIME, PLACED NEAR A VASE OF

FLOWERS.

O PAUSE,

Old Time, ere o'er my flowers,

Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid;

And leave, O leave, some lingering hours,
Ere Nature's final debt is paid.

Some lingering hours, in which may rise
The memory of the buried past;

And I may pour some parting sighs,
O'er hopes, thoughts, joys, for ever past.

They rise no more-those flowers are shed,
Whose early fragrance blest my morn;

They haunt the chambers of the dead,

Like flowers around the funeral urn.

Yet shall arise upon my way,

Affection's buds and blossoms fair;

The same that in my early day

With heavenly fragrance filled the air.

They live-they breathe; and on my heart

I

wear, still wear those cherished flowers;

And death alone those ties can part,

First woven in my home's sweet bowers.

O pause, old Time! for though to thee
I have not brought the tribute due;
And hours, days, years, have fled from me,
Still to my mortal trust untrue;

Yet, in thy course thou hast not seen,
Ungenerous wish, or fault unmourned,

And all that ought not to have been
Upon a sorrowing heart returned.

And ere I bow beneath thy sway,
Full many a virtue shall be mine;
For I will consecrate each day,

To bend at duty's hallowed shrine.

Then pause, old Time, ere o'er my flowers, Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid;

And leave, O leave, some lingering hours, Ere Nature's final debt is paid.

FROM THE SACRED OFFERING.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY*.

FAIR flower, that, lapt in lowly glade,
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes on bank or spray,
Our England's lily of the May,
Our Lily of the vale!

Art thou that "Lily of the field,"
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,

He showed to our mistrustful kind
An emblem of the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care?

Not thus, I trow; for brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine

Those children of the East:
There, when mild autumn's early rain
Descends on parched Esdrela's plain,

And Tabor's oak-girt crest;

* The Editor has taken a liberty (for which the beauty of the language as well as the poetry must plead her excuse) of extracting this piece from "The British Months," a poem in twelve parts, by Dr. MANT, Lord Bishop of Down and Connor, recently published by Mr. Parker, West Strand.

More frequent than the host of night,
Those earth-born stars, as sages write,
Their brilliant disks unfold;

Fit symbol of imperial state,
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnished gold.

But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower,
Dost thou display the Maker's power,
His skill and handywork;

Our western valleys' humbler child,
Where, in green nook of woodland wild,
Thy modest blossoms lurk.

What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine,
Yet, born to bloom and fade,

Thee too a lovelier robe arrays,
Than, e'en in Israel's brightest days,
Her wealthiest king arrayed.

Of thy twin leaves the embowered screen,
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;

Thy arched and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendent many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell.

Instinct with life thy fibrous root,

Which sends from earth the ascending shoot,

As rising from the dead,

S

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