42 ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

VIII.

Too much o'er him is poured

My being's hope-scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too fearfully adored,

Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

IX.

I tremble with a sense

Of grief to be I hear a warning low—
Sweet Mother! call me hence;
This wild idolatry must end in woe.

X.

The troubled joy of life,

Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known,
And, worn with feverish strife,

Would fold its wings-take back, take back thine own!

XI.

Hark! how the wind swept by!

The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave

Hope of the sailor's eye

And maiden's heart! blest Mother, guide and save!

AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

COME all ye feathery people of mid-air,

Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottoes cool;
And ye
who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come !-O phoenix rare!
If death hath spared thee, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian,-lonely nightingale !
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs,
Until they waken;-and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouched Echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love,- -come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,

Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth,
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),

And with 'it enrich our ears ;-come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper---Love!

CUPID TAUGHT BY THE GRACES.

Ir is their summer haunt ;—a giant oak
Stretches its sheltering arm above their heads,
And midst the twilight of depending boughs
They ply their eager task. Between them sits
A bright haired child, whose softly-glistening wings
Quiver with joy, as ever and anon

He, at their bidding, sweeps a chorded shell,
And draws its music forth. Wondering, he looks
For their approving smile, and quickly drinks
(Apt pupil!) from their lips instruction sweet,
Divine encouragement! And this is Love
TAUGHT BY THE GRACES how to point his darts
With milder mercy and discreeter aim;
To stir the bosom's lyre to harmony,

And waken strains of music from its chords
They never gave before!

N.

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