Thy vivifying spell

Has been felt beneath the wave,

By the dormouse in its cell,

And the mole within its cave; And the summer tribes that creep, Or in air expand their wing, Have started from their sleep, At the summons of the Spring.

The cattle lift their voices

From the valleys and the hills, And the feather'd race rejoices With a gush of tuneful bills; And if this cloudless arch

Fills the poet's song with glee, O thou sunny first of March,

Be it dedicate to thee!

L. E. LANDON.

Descriptive Sketch.

(From the Literary Gazette, No. 375.)

It is a lovely lake, with waves as blue
As e'er were lighted by the morning ray
To topaz-crowded with an hundred isles,
Each named from some peculiar flower it bears :
There is the Isle of Violets, whose leaves,
Thick in their azure beauty, fill the air
With most voluptuous breathings; the Primrose
Gives name to one; the Lillies of the Valley,
Like wreath'd pearls, to another; Cowslips glow,
Ringing with golden bells the fragrant peal
Which the bees love so, in a fourth.
Upon a summer evening, when the lake
Lies half in shadow, half in crimson light,
Like hope and fear holding within the heart
Divided empire, with a light slack sail
To steer your little boat amid the isles,

How sweet

Now gazing in the clouds like fiery halls,

Till head and eye are filled with gorgeous thoughts
Of golden palaces in fairyland;

Or, looking thro' the clear, yet purple wave,
See the white pebbles, shining like the hearts
Pure and bright even in this darksome world!
There is one gloomy isle, quite overgrown
With weeping willows; green, yet pensively
Sweep the long branches down to the tall grass;
And in the very middle of the place

There stands a large old yew-beneath its shade
I would my grave might be: the tremulous light,
Breaking at intervals thro' the sad boughs,
Yet without power to warm the ground below,
Would be so like the mockery of hope.

No flowers grow there they would not suit my tomb:

It should be only strewed with withered leaves;
And on a willow, near, my harp might hang,
Forgotten and forsaken, yet at times.
Sending sweet music o'er the lake.

The Farewell.

(From the same.)

YES, I am changed; yes, much much changed Since first I sang to thee;

I marvel, knowing what I am,

At what I once could be.

The trace of pleasure on my heart
Was like that of the wind,
And sorrow's self had not then left
A deeper trace behind.

My song was like the bursting forth
Of the first birds in spring;

I had some thought of future flowers,
But none of withering.

I thought of love, but of love as
Love never yet was known;
Of truth, of hope, of happiness-
But all these dreams are flown.

As sometimes on Italian shores
At dawn of day is seen
A fleeting show of fairy land,

Just such my life has been.

How I now loathe my dreams of song!
They have been so untrue;

But more I loathe the dearer dream,
The one that dwelt with you!

Farewell to one, farewell to all,
Both song and love are o'er;
The essence of their life is past,
For they deceive no more!

STANZAS.

(From the Literary Gazette, No. 387.)

Is this the harp you used to wake,
The harp of other days?

Or is it that another hand
Amid its music strays?

No! the same harp to the same hand

Yields up its melody

The song, too, is the very same,

Yet they are changed for me.

They are the same but oh! how changed Since last I heard their tone;