342 Original Poetry. [May 1; 
FOLLY. 
“© Shoot Folly as she flies.” 
Fotty is old as Adam’s line, 
Folly is young as morning’s dawn ; 
As glittering as the noonday shine, 
And timorous as the fawn : 
Folly is Passion’s wayward child, 
Deluding both the staid and wise; 
And thousands try, with shaft beguil’d, 
To shoot her as she flies. 
The more they mark, the more she shuns ; 
She draws them many a weary chace ;— 
Daughters of Beauty,—Plutus’ sons,— 
Earth’s, Air’s, and Ocean’s race. 
Who shall be found without her spell, 
Uninfluene’d by her charm'd disguise ? 
The palace, cottage, church and cell 
Are known to Folly as she flies. 
Is Taste not led by Folly’s air? 
Is Fashion not her votary all ? 
Eyen Custom struggles in her snare, 
And Time itself is Folly’s thrall : 
Tf, at the altar, rich and poor, 
Aged and young, are link’d by ties, 
Folly is waiting at the door, 
Or laughing at them, as she flies. 
Folly infects a hero’s brain, 
Rides in the battle and the strife ; 
Couches in youth with nymph and swain, 
And sometimes soothes the eve of life : 
The sweetest and the bitterest tones 
Of trial, art, controul and skill, 
Are breath’d from Folly’s zxrial zones— 
The echoes of her fancied will, 
Folly is busy at the ’Change— 
Engaged in chancery suits,—how long ! 
Even to the pulpit oft will range, 
And trill upon the stage her song. 
Projects she frames in streets and marts,— 
The place of counsels sage supplies, — 
To purses dives, as well as hearts ; 
But no one shoots her as she flies. 
J.R. Prior. 
, 
SONNET 
TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
Ir seemeth like enchantment thus to go 
Into the calm, lull’d woods, when all’s asleep, 
Save thee, lone minstrel of fictitious woe, 
Shade-loving Philomel! who seem’st to weep 
Thy bosom’s deep-wrung sufferings :—O! 
thy voice, 
Like angel Pity’s fromsome drooping cloud, 
Doth bid the sullen heart of him rejoice, 
Who shuns, like thee, the vile obnoxious 
crowd, 
Where all is glitter, noise, and waste of 
mind; 
Where Love is aped by false-faced Courtesy ; 
Where Folly’s converse loads the sickening . 
wind,— 
And Fashion rules with mean servility : 
O! what a break of bondage, here entwin’d 
With boughs to sit, sweet bird! listening 
thy harmony. j 
Hawley Coitage, Kent. Enort. 
THE GHEBER’S ADDRESS TO THE 
RISING SUN. 
Pure emblem bright of God above, 
And source of life to all below, 
With rapture glowing, fir’d with love, 
At thy approach, we prostrate bow. 
With reverence holy, hallow’d, deep, 
Again we hail thy morning beams, 
That tint with gold yon rugged steep, 
That chase away unholy dreams. 
O, warm our hearts with love to thee, 
With love to Him who form’d thee thus ; 
Bid every lingering shadow flee, 
And bend thy radiant eye on us. 
Spread wide abroad thy power divine, 
Embrown the valley’s waving corn, 
Ripen the gem within the mine, 
Of Plenty fill, O, fill the horn. 
At every season’s swift return, 
Our offering’s on thine altar laid ; 
To thee our fires eternal burn, 
To thee our vows are early paid. 
Yet still oppress’d, on ev’ry side, 
Beneath a tyrant’s yoke we bow, 
O, dart thy vengeful terrors wide, 
And lay the haughty Moslem low. 
O’er mountain, valley, stream and main, 
Through Persia’s far-extended lands, 
May Gheber war-cries sound again, 
Inflame our hearts, and nerve our hands, 
And swift, as from thy sacred face, 
The shades of night in terror fly, 
May Ali’s proud and sensual race 
Before our banners flee—or die, 
So may from every altar blaze 
Thy holy fires—from every heart, 
And every tongue resound thy praise, 
’ Till death himself shall sheathe his dart. 
Pure emblem bright of God above, 
And source of light to all below, 
With rapture glowing, fir’d with love, 
At thy approach, we prostrate bow. Z. 
—— 
HYMN TO PEACE. 
Tue deathful din is lull’d! Lift your ripe 
heads, 
Ye harvest fields, in gladness—fearless now 
That the rude trampling of the armed hoof 
Should crush your foodful bounty. Ye blythe 
meads, 
Let your green mantles in the sunny show’r 
Fresh’ ning rejoice, with manya flow’ret gem’d, 
Gay as the bridal ! while o’er head the lark 
Calls up the reaper, and each warbling brook 
Joins in the choral song with youth and maid, 
Cheering the jocund toil; and rick and barn, 
Echoing, respond of peace and love and joy, 
In mutual gratulation :—for the sword 
Of war is sheath’d; and now the unwounding 
scythe, 
The sickle and the share, alone employ 
The glad-resounding forge—whose sparks 
illume 
The paths of plenty, not the walks of death. 
