A STRAIN OF MUSIC.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

MERCHANT OF VENICE.

OH! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell and float,

A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on

every note;

And yet my full o'erburthen'd heart grows troubled by

your power,

[hour. And ye seem to press the long past years into one little

If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no

more

A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the moun

tain shore,

[ing sky,A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evenYe bring me back those images fast as ye wander by.

If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have heard,

And into childhood's memory link'd the music of a bird; A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's train,—

Ye give me that wild melody of early life again.

Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is changed, or

gone,

Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone, I find that murmur in your notes-they touch the chords of thought,

And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought.

If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love was bound:

If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came not back,

The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting track.

Yet on ye float!—the very air seems kindling with your glee!

Oh! do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds! alone on me?

Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now, in sighs,

To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies?

I know not!-only this I know, that not by me on

earth,

May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its

birth;

It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal sphere,

Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter fountains here.

A HEALTH.

BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds,

And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows

As one may see the burthen'd bee forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;

And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns-the idol of past

years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood some
more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

26

THE SERENADE.

They flash, where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.

Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen,
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air

Of the Gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,

As love-led he crosses

The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur
Of water and grove

The tones of the night,

That are sacred to love.

His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,
That dances and plays
On his cap where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,
The bright billow break,