A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.

BY J. I. BAILEY.

HAST thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved
At glorious sports like these? Even now I see
Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed
In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky,
The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue!
And now with eager hopes and proud desires
Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band
Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins!
Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail
The alternate victor as he speeds along;
Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight,
And as they gaze, as many thousand souls
Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out.
Then comes the glorious moment when the goal
Is almost reached-they goad the foremost steeds
Lashing with all their might upon their flanks;
The golden chariot glitters in the course,
And swifter than the wind is borne along-
And now the victor, like a flash of light,
Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim,
While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air!

Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene 1.

LINES FOR MUSIC,

BY G. P. MORRIS,

O WOULD that she were here,

These hills and dales among,

Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By echo's airy tongue,-

Where jocund Nature smiles
In all her gay attire,
Amid deep-tangled wiles

Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
O would that she were here,

That fair and gentle thing, Whose words are musical as strains Breathed by the wind-harp's string.

O would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in their joyousness,
Adown the rocky steep,-
Where rosy Zephyr lingers
All the livelong day,
With health upon his pinions,

And gladness in his way.
O would that she were here,

Sure Eden's garden-plot

Did not embrace more varied charms Than this romantic spot.

O would that she were here,
Where frolic by the hours,
Rife with the song of bee and bird,
The perfume of the flowers,—
Where beams of peace and love,
And radiant beauty's glow,
Are pictured in the sky above,
And in the lake below.

O would that she were here

The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown BIANCA queen.

WHITE LAKE.*

BY A. B. STREET.

PURE as their parent springs! how bright
The silvery waters stretch away,
Reposing in the pleasant light
Of June's most lovely day.

Curving around the eastern side,

Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet
With fringe of grass and fern, the tide
Which sparkles at their feet.

Here busy life attests that toil,

With its quick talisman, has made
Fields green and waving, from a soil
Of rude and savage shade.

While opposite the forests lie

In giant shadow, black and deep,
Filling with leaves the circling sky,
And frowning in their sleep.

Amid this scene of light and gloom,
Nature with art links hand in hand,
Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,
As by a seer's command.

* Or "Lake Kau-na-ong-ga," meaning literally "two wings." White Lake, which is the unmeaning modern epithet of this beautiful sheet of water, is situated in the town of Bethel, Sullivan County, N. Y. It is in the form of a pair of huge wings expanded.

Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke, The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark As when the hermit waters woke

Beneath the Indian's bark.

Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek
With the herd's quiet lowings swell,
The wolf's fierce howl terrific break
Upon the sheepfold's bell.

The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer Dart from his covert to the wave,

And fearless in its mirror clear

His branching antlers lave.

Here, the green headlands seem to meet So near, a fairy bridge might cross; There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet In smooth, unruffled gloss.

Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,
A lilied harbour lurks below,
Where on the sand each ripple weaves
Its melting wreath of snow.

Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods
To the light wind in murmurs wake,
The voice of the vast solitudes

Is speaking to the lake.

The fanning air-breath sweeps across

On its broad path of sparkles now. Bends down the violet to the moss, Then melts upon my brow.

SONG OF SPRING-TIME.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

WHERE dost thou loiter, Spring,

While it behoveth
Thee to cease wandering

Where'er thou roveth,

And to my lady bring

The flowers she loveth.

Come with thy melting skies
Like her cheek blushing,
Come with thy dewy eyes

Where founts are gushing;
Come where the wild bee hies
When dawn is flushing.

Lead her where by the brook
The first blossom keepeth,
Where, in the sheltered nook,
The callow bud sleepeth;
Or with a timid look

Through its leaves peepeth.

Lead her where on the spray,

Blithely carolling,

First birds their roundelay

For my lady sing—

But keep, where'er she stray

True-love blossoming.