WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LINES COMPOSED ON A DAY IN FEBRUARY.

By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lairThe bees are stirring-birds are on the wingAnd WINTER slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye Amaranths! bloom for whom ye may—
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll :
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live.

THE POET-WARRIOR.

By Allan Cunningham.

1.

STAYED is the war-horse in his strength,
Broke is the barbed arrow,

The spell has conquered on Nithside,
Which won of yore on Yarrow.

O did he bear a charmed sword
That for no mail would tarry,
And on his youthful head a helm

Was forged in land of fairy.

Did Saxon shaft and war axe dint

Fall on charm'd mail and elfin flint?

2.

His spell was valour, and he came

When warrior's hearts were coldest,

And poured his fire through peasant's souls, And led and ruled the boldest.

He with flushed brow, and flashing eyes,

And right arm bare and gory,

Rushed reeking o'er the lives of men,

And turned our shame to glory. A hero's soul was his, and higher The minstrel's love, and poet's fire.

3.

Seek for a dark and downcast eye,

A glance 'mongst men the mildest,
Seek for a bearing haught and high
Can daunt and awe the wildest.
Seek one whose soul in tenderness
Is steeped who to the lyre
Can pour out song as fast and bright

As heaven can pour its fire.

Seek him, and when thou find'st him, kneel,

Though thou hadst gold spurs on thy heel.

THE ROSE.

By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.

La rose que ta main chérie

Hier a sauvé de la mort,

Est aujourd'hui pâle et flétrie ;—
Tel est des fleurs le triste sort.
Reconnaissante de ta peine,

En mourant cette aimable fleur,
Légue a tes joues sa rougeur,
Son doux parfum à ton haleine.

The rose, alas! thy guardian hand

Sav'd yesterday from dying,

Pale, wan, and wither'd from its stem,

Is now in ruins lying:

But the fond flower, to shew she still

Was grateful, e'en in death,

Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,

Her perfume to thy breath.

TO MY CHILD.

CHILD of my heart! My sweet, belov'd first-bórn!
Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow, who dost come when all the showers
Are past, or passing! Rose which hath no thorn,-
No pain, no blemish,-pure and unforlorn,
Untouched-untainted-O, my flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,-
To seamen stranded life-assuring morn.
Welcome! a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
Round all, seems loosening now her snake-like fold!
New hope springs upwards, and the bright world

seems

Cast back into her youth of endless springs !—
-Sweet mother, is it so ?-or grow I old,

Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?

Noyember, 1825.

B. C.