With its glare and irksome din?

But when night is come, and glowing
Is the lamp's attemper'd ray,
And from lip to lip are flowing
Love and mirth, in sparkling play;

When the fiery boy, that wildly
Rushes in his wayward mood,
Calms to rest, disporting mildly,
By some trivial gift subdued;

When the nightingale is trilling
Songs of love to lovers' ears,
Which, to hearts with sorrow thrilling,
Seem but sighs and waken tears;

Then, with bosom lightly springing,
Dost thou listen to the bell,
That, with midnight's number ringing,
Speaks of rest and joy so well?

Then, dear heart, this comfort borrow
From the long day's lingering light--
Every day hath its own sorrow,
Gladness cometh with the night!

We are somewhat puzzled as to the title which we ought to prefix to our
next specimen. Goethe rather maliciously calls it "Gegenwart," which may
be equivalent to the word "Presentiality," if, indeed, such a word
belongs to the English language. We, therefore, prefer dedicating it to
our own ladye love; and we could not find for her any where a sweeter
strain, unless we were to commit depredation upon the minor poems of Ben
Jonson or of Shakspeare.

TO MY MISTRESS.

All that's lovely speaks of thee!
When the glorious sun appeareth,
'Tis thy harbinger to me:
Only thus he cheereth.

In the garden where thou go'st,
There art thou the rose of roses,
First of lilies, fragrant most
Of the fragrant posies.

When thou movest in the dance,
All the stars with thee are moving,
And around thee gleam and glance,
Never tired of loving.

Night!--and would the night were here!
Yet the moon would lose her duty,
Though her sheen be soft and clear,
Softer is thy beauty!

Fair, and kind, and gentle one!
Do not moon, and stars, and flowers
Pay that homage to their sun
That we pay to ours?

Sun of mine, that art so dear--
Sun, that art above all sorrow!
Shine, I pray thee, on me here
Till the eternal morrow.

Another little poem makes us think of "poor Ophelia." We suspect that
Goethe had the music of her broken ballad floating in his mind, when he
composed the following verses:--

THE WILD ROSE.

A boy espied, in morning light,
A little rosebud blowing.
'Twas so delicate an