THE BLUE HARE-BELL*. HAVE ye ever heard in the twilight dim, That ye fancied a distant vesper hymn, By the zephyrs that rise on perfumed wing, Have ye heard that music, with cadence sweet, Ring out, like the echoes of fairy feet, And did ye deem that each trembling tone The source of that whispering strain I'll tell; To the music faint of the Blue Hare-bell, 'Tis the gay fairy-folk the peal who ring, * These exquisitely beautiful lines have been selected from a volume, recently published by Mr. Tilt, entitled "Poems, with Illustrations, by Louisa Anne Twamley." A young lady, who, at the age of twenty, is a Poet, a Painter, and her own Engraver. And gaily the trembling bells peal out, While elves and fairies career about, Oh, roses and lilies are fair to see; But the wild Blue-bell is the flower for me. LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY. ON A TIME-PIECE. WITH A FIGURE OF TIME, PLACED NEAR A VASE OF FLOWERS. O PAUSE, Old Time, ere o'er my flowers, Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid; And leave, O leave, some lingering hours, Some lingering hours, in which may rise And I may pour some parting sighs, They rise no more-those flowers are shed, They haunt the chambers of the dead, Like flowers around the funeral urn. Yet shall arise upon my way, Affection's buds and blossoms fair; The same that in my early day With heavenly fragrance filled the air. They live-they breathe; and on my heart I wear, still wear those cherished flowers; And death alone those ties can part, First woven in my home's sweet bowers. O pause, old Time! for though to thee Yet, in thy course thou hast not seen, And all that ought not to have been And ere I bow beneath thy sway, To bend at duty's hallowed shrine. Then pause, old Time, ere o'er my flowers, Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid; And leave, O leave, some lingering hours, Ere Nature's final debt is paid. FROM THE SACRED OFFERING. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY*. FAIR flower, that, lapt in lowly glade, Art thou that "Lily of the field," He showed to our mistrustful kind Not thus, I trow; for brighter shine Those children of the East: And Tabor's oak-girt crest; * The Editor has taken a liberty (for which the beauty of the language as well as the poetry must plead her excuse) of extracting this piece from "The British Months," a poem in twelve parts, by Dr. MANT, Lord Bishop of Down and Connor, recently published by Mr. Parker, West Strand. More frequent than the host of night, Fit symbol of imperial state, But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower, Our western valleys' humbler child, What though nor care nor art be thine, Thee too a lovelier robe arrays, Of thy twin leaves the embowered screen, Thy arched and purple-vested stem, Instinct with life thy fibrous root, Which sends from earth the ascending shoot, As rising from the dead, S |