No more than this!-what seem'd it now
First by that spring to stand?

A thousand streams of lovelier flow

Bathed his own mountain land!

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices call'd him back.

They call'd him back to many a glade,
His childhood's haunt of play,

Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanced away;

They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father's hills and graves.

But, darkly mingling with the thought

Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught

With all that lay between;

The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,

The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?

His alter'd heart within him died
With yearnings for his home!
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.

He wept the stars of Afric's heaven

Beheld his bursting tears,

E'en on that spot where fate had given

The meed of toiling years!

Oh, happiness! how far we flee

Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

1

CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That Father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud:-"Say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And look'd from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud, "My Father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea!-

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing which perish'd there
Was that young faithful heart!

VOL. IV.. 15

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.'

'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,

By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,

In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd
In a golden current on,

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,

The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-
Those days of song and dreams-
When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

1 This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth,
By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another's gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn may leave

A lingerer still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.

OUR DAILY PATHS.'

"Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings."

WORDSWORTH.

THERE'S beauty all around our paths, if but our

watchful eyes

Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise;

1 This little poem derives an additional interest, from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr. Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs. Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in