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THE LOVERS.

BY THE LADY E. S. WORTLEY.

The world lies hushed around them now,

And the last smiles of dying day Are streaming o'er each lifted brow

The sweeter that they cannot stay!

All things most mournful and most fair

Are now above them and around; The setting sun is reddening there,

And flowers and ruins clothe the ground !

Oh, love! o'er nature's dreariest wild

Thou, thou canst shed a charm divine, And thou her loveliest scenes canst gild,

And bid them with new brightness shine.

And, oh! how beautious must thou make

A scene so exquisite as this;
The sky, the rock, the air, the lake,

Steep'd in thy purple light of bliss !

The mountains and the waters wear

Eternity's calm aspect bright, But then, that setting sun is there,

To speak of shadows, change, and night!

And ruins such as still are found

On fair Italia's golden plains, Cumber the flower-enamell’d ground,

All darken’d o'er by Time's dull stains.

But what are these, young Love, to thee?

Immortal, oh! immortal one! Thou feelst thine own eternity,

And smilest at yonder sinking sun !

And though Decay and Change may frown

Amid those scenes where thou dost move, That crimson'd air is all thine own,

And thou canst light the dusk earth, Love !

Thou—thou art reigning brightly there,

Lord of that landscape's flowery round; The angel of that passionate air

The genius of that shadowy ground!

SONNET.

BY THE REV. CHARLES ALFORD.

FRIEND of my heart, here in my close green bower

I wait thy coming; slender clematis,

And the rank ivied vine, with late primroses, And the classic tea-tree, with small purple flower, Are here; and fox-glove, with its bearded bell,

Haunt of the passing bee; and thy delight,

The lily of the valley, purest white, Rising like naked nymph from ocean shell. Nor wanting is Canova's art divine ;

On the rude trunk, native in earth below, The god of gladness, garlanded with vine,

And Ariadne re-assured from woe; And the full noon, by leafy screen delay'd

Has spread the pebbled floor with fickle shade.

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