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POETRY.

For the Analectic Magazine.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

"Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For lo the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."

AWAKE, my beloved! my fair come away,
While the song of the grove hails the rising of day;
Lo! spring's blooming treasures enamel the lawn,
And the storms of dark winter are over and gone.

O sweet as thy breath is each zephyr that blows,
And bright as thy cheek is the blush of the rose;
And soft as thine accents of tenderness bland
Is the voice of the turtle-dove heard in our land.

Then come and I'll lead thee to close woven bowers,
Where the wild brook flows smoothly through margins of flowers;
Where the shy steps of love no intrusion need fear,
And its tender confidings no mortal can hear.

The wild brook shall dimple with pleasure and pride,
As thy beauties reflected are seen in its tide;
And the willow shall bend its fond branches so green,
To kiss the pure wave where thine image has been.

How sweet at this season to wander the grove
With the timid delays and fond loit'rings of love;
The murmuring whisper, the sigh half suppress'd,

And the glance quick withdrawn where the soul stands confess'd.

Alas, that the glories of morning should fly!

That the bud of the rose should just open and die;
That spring, the blest season of love, should depart,
And the voice of the turtle no more touch the heart!

Thus beauty decays—but returns never more!

And the spring-time of youth-ah how soon is it o'er!

Then enjoy youth, and spring-time, and morn, while you may-

O rise, my beloved! my fair come away!

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[The following pungent and delicately managed sarcasm is extracted from “Taz STRANGER," a well conducted paper, published weekly at Albany.]

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Backward coil'd and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;

Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring

Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,

As oft beyond thy curving side

Its jetty tip is seen to glide;

Till from thy centre starting far,

Thou sidelong rear'st with rump in air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:

Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

Doth power in measured verses dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell?

Ah, no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern muse
Expression technical to use,)

These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.

The frailest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay:

For these, beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest praise thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur;

As, timing well the equal sound,

Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,

Like prickles of an early rose;

While softly from thy whiskered cheek, Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire ;

The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore;
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade,
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page,

Upon the hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravell'd skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower, or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways; What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss;
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger, at his ruthless play?

Or, is it, that in thee we trace,

With all thy varied wanton grace,

An emblem view'd with kindred eye,

Of tricksy, restless infancy?

Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil'd,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom❜st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove;
When time hath spoiled thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat,

A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with sav'ry food.

Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid ;

And children show, with glist'ning eyes,
The place where poor old pussy lies.

POETRY.

A MODERN POETICAL EPITOME.

[From Mr. Barrett's "Heroine, or Adventures of a Fair Romance Reader."]

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