The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 537, March 10, 1832

THE FIRST-BORN

Beautiful, O woman! the sun on flower and tree,
And beautiful the balmy wind that dreameth on the sea;
And softly soundeth in thine ear, the song of peasants reaping,
The dove's low chant among the leaves, its twilight vigil keeping.

And beautiful the hushing of the linnet in her nest,
With her young beneath her wings, and the sunset on her breast:
While hid among the flowers, where the dreamy bee is flitting,
Singing unto its own glad heart, the poet child is sitting.

It stirreth up the soul, upon the golden waves to see,
The galley lifting up her crowned head triumphantly—
Io! Io! now she laugheth like a Queen of Araby,
While Joy and Music strew with flowers the pathway of her Chariotry!

And beautiful unto thy soul, at summer time to wait,
Till Moonlight with her sweet pale feet, comes dancing to thy gate;
Thy violet-eyes upturn'd unto thy love with timid grace,
He feels thine arm about his neck, thy kisses on his face.

Beautiful, O gentle girl, these pleasant thoughts to thee,
These chosen sheaves, long harvested within thy memory!
But when thy face grows dim, with weariness and care,
Thy heart, forgetting all its songs, awaketh but to prayer!

Thou lookest for a gleeful face, thine opening eyes to greet,
While coldness gathers on thy breast, the shadow round thy feet—
Beautiful, O woman, the green earth and the flowers may be,
But sweeter in that hour the voice of thy First-born Child to thee!

THE ATHENIAN LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS

The spirit of mine eyes is faint
With gazing on thy light;
I close my eyelids, but within,
Sweet, thou art shining bright,
Sitting amid the purple gloom,
Like a flower-bird at night!

Thy beauty walketh by my side
By the green wood, on the sea;
I hear thee in the bird that sings
Upon the orange-tree;
Thy face upon the haunted streams
Is looking up to me.

Gentle one, in grief I linger
Beside the glimmering nest,
Till evening sinketh in the flowers,
Like a weary fawn to rest,
Yea, my heart is sick with longing
To dream upon thy breast!

From the dark of their golden lids
Thy singing eyes look out,
Like doves in the olives hearing
The shepherd's jocund shout,
As he wandereth with his pipe
The sunny glen about.

I have opened mine eyes—
Thy beauty will not part,
But thy feet are dancing round me,
Lovely! that thou art—
The sweet breath of thine eyes doth fall,
Like odour on my heart!

TO AN ARCADIAN CHILD SLEEPING

Sleep on—sleep on—the silver flowers
A pillow for thy head may be,
While Evening with her band of hours
Sits by thee silently.

From Morning in the vine-yards straying—
Sweet child, so fair and meek!
She lieth down, and tired of playing,
Darkens the bright grass with her cheek.

One arm upon her eyes she foldeth,
O'er which her hair is softly fann'd,
And still with fainting grasp she holdeth
The lilies in her hand.

Oh—wake her not! the forest streams
With balmy lips are breathing rest;
Nor stir the garland of sweet dreams
Which Sleep hath bound upon her breast.

New Monthly Magazine

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

ADVENTURES OF A YOUNGER SON

These are three volumes of spirit-stirring scenes, understood to be written by Captain Trelawney, the friend of Lord Byron. They are said to embody many incidents of the early life of the writer, though portions are too strongly tinged with romance to belong to sober reality. The Younger Son is driven from his native hearth by a cruel father. His proud spirit revolts at such oppression. He sings with Byron