B
 
 CHISWICK : 
 PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM.
 
 LYRE. 
 
 FTGITIVE POETRY 
 OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 ( HA It I.I S 111. I, rMJ-.T SIKI.K 
 
 MIHtVXXXMII.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 1 HE cliaiiges which have taken place in the 
 public taste as it respects Poetry daring the 
 last thirty years have been manifold and ex- 
 traordinary. About the close of the eighteenth 
 century, the only j)oems which were honoured 
 witli any marked share of popular favour, 
 were of a didactic order; and altliough 
 Cowper and Burns had already made their 
 appearance above the literary horizon, the 
 latter was comparatively unappreciated, and 
 the former chiefly known by the least va- 
 luable and important portion of his writings. 
 Of our more modem poets, Rogers and
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 CaDipbell alone excited any particular atten- 
 tion. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey 
 had published many of their most beauti- 
 ful lyrical compositions, but as yet they 
 had attracted little notice; and even those 
 noble ballads of Campbell, on which his 
 strongest claims to immortality will be found 
 ultimately to rest, sank into insignificance 
 before his longer and more elaborate poem. 
 From this epoch until the publication of 
 the poetical romances of Sir Walter Scott, 
 there was a complete interregnum in the 
 Parnassian Dynasty : the " Lay of the Last 
 Minstrel," 'Olarmion," and the "Lady of the 
 Lake," produced, however, a total revolution 
 in the popular taste; their author was ele- 
 vated by almost unanimous consent to the 
 vacant chair; the fashion for didactic poe- 
 try declined : and narrative, or rather de- 
 scriptive POETRY became at once the order 
 of the day. Such indeed was the brilliancy 
 which attended the rising of this new lumi- 
 nary, that the light of numerous contempo-
 
 I'REFACL. V 
 
 rary stars was entirely obscured by its bright- 
 ness. 
 
 The publication ol" Childe Harold created 
 another and most remarkable mutation in 
 the fashion of the day. Epic, didactic, and 
 descriptive poems alike ceased to be regarded ; 
 and an appetite was almost immediately 
 created for personal poetry, which had not 
 merely a prospective, but equally a retro- 
 spective operation. Narrative poetry had now 
 no longer any chance of success, unless the 
 reflections and sentiments of the author were 
 impersonated in his hero. A prejudice in 
 favour of old habits of thought and criticism, 
 liowever, led most of the reviewers of the 
 day, to condemn, in Childe Harold, tlie very 
 egotism which has since become the staple 
 commodity of modern poetry. The Giaour, 
 tlie Corsair, Lara, and a large proportion of 
 Lord Byron's subsequent writings, abound 
 all of them with those im|)assioned bursts 
 of natural feeling — tliosc forceful traits of 
 individual character — whicli could only have
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 been drawn from the recesses of his own 
 bosom ; and which derive a tenfold interest 
 from such an inference. 
 
 Nothing can be more erroneous than the 
 supposition that the public is not interested 
 in the private feelings, and aspirations of a 
 poet. It is the peculiar attribute of genius to 
 create in the minds of its readers a degree of 
 sympathy with its lot, which gives a value 
 and interest to every revelation with which 
 it may deign to indulge the world ; although 
 the quantum of sympathy and excitement 
 thus produced, must of course depend, for 
 the most part, upon the poet's power of de- 
 veloping his sentiments in impassioned and 
 energetic language. That such a power was 
 possessed by Lord Byron, to an extent for 
 w hich we should in vain seek for a parallel in 
 any other writer, can scarcely be denied ; and 
 to this may in a great measure be ascribed the 
 inextinguishable energy of his poetry, and the 
 sudden and universal applause it has com- 
 manded. Impersonations of the more stormy
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 attributes of our nature, — records of the hopes, 
 the fears, the passions, and the pains of an 
 exalted but erratic genius, — must always lay 
 firmer hold on the sympathy of that order of 
 readers, which it is most a poet's object to 
 conciliate, than any imaginative description of 
 feelings and incidents that have no echo in 
 the lieart, — no foundation in the history of the 
 writer. It has been frequently remarked, that 
 there scarcely exists the person whose auto- 
 biography, if fairly and candidly set forth, 
 with all the springs and motives of his actions 
 clearly and unshrinkingly displayed, would 
 not be of interest, and even of service, to the 
 public ; and if the correctness of this apothegm 
 be universally recognised, how much more 
 forcibly will it apply to the history of the poet ; 
 and how doubly interesting and valuable must 
 be the secret outjjourings of his heart — the 
 impassioned narrative of its joys, its sor- 
 rows, and disappointments, — as conveyed in 
 those lyrical ebullitions of feeling, which 
 may not unaptly be pronounced the escape-
 
 Vl!l PREFACE. 
 
 valves of the poetical temperament ; and by 
 which the safety of the machine can some- 
 times alone be ensured. It is this class of 
 poetry which is not only the best calculated 
 to interest the reader, from the echoes which 
 refined sentiments, whether of pleasure or of 
 pain, must continually produce in his own 
 heart, but the best adapted to display the 
 genius of the writer. It is to compositions 
 of this order that we may invariably refer for 
 the more successful productions of the poet. 
 He who is skilful in delineating- the feelings 
 of an ideal hero, must prove much more 
 energetic when, roused and excited by the 
 impulses of his own mind, he identifies his 
 personal history with his writings. What, for 
 example, constitutes the overwhelming interest 
 of Childe Harold "^ — the fact, of which such 
 abundant internal evidence is to be found 
 throughout the poem, that it is in a great mea- 
 sure the personal history of the poet. And 
 which are the passages most frequently remem- 
 l)ered and referred to ^ Unquestionably those
 
 PREFACE. 1\ 
 
 in which he lays aside the pilgrim-vest, and 
 appears before the reader in his own person ; 
 making liim the confidant of the ever shiftino* 
 impulses of his soul, — the depository of its 
 gladness and its grief. Who is there who 
 would not exchange the most splendid ima- 
 ginative descriptions, for such intense and 
 impassioned revealings? 
 
 Are there not also passages in the intro- 
 ductions to Marmion of more interest to the 
 reader than the more splendid ideal descrip- 
 tions in the |)oem itself? Which are the most 
 universally popular of the writings of Words- 
 worth, Soutliey, Campbell, and Coleridge? 
 ['nqueslionably sucli poems as have been 
 produced under the influence of some power- 
 ful emotion ; which liave not been pro- 
 hmged beyond the existence of the feeling 
 that inspired tliem ; which are more or less 
 identified with the personal histories of the 
 poets, and which consequently reflect back tlie 
 feelings and aspirations of a large proportion 
 
 A 2
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 of their readers. It is for this reason that 
 Lord Byron's exquisite apostrophes to Thyrza, 
 and the melodious murmurs of a grief almost 
 titanic in its character, which are every where 
 scattered over his continuous poems, afford 
 the noblest evidences of his genius. It is for 
 this reason also that the Tintern Abbey of 
 Wordsworth — the Retrospection of Southey 
 — the exquisite Genevieve of Coleridge — the 
 too prophetic lines written in a moment of 
 dejection at Naples, of Shelley — the beautiful 
 Address to a Sleeping Child of Wilson — the 
 lyrical burst, " Let me not have this gloomy 
 view," in the Tales of the Hall, of Crabbe 
 — with numerous other poems of a similar 
 character by the same authors, — are supe- 
 rior to their longer and more elaborate com- 
 positions. 
 
 For several years past the Poetical Lite- 
 rature of the country has consisted almost 
 entirely of short lyrical pieces; and unless 
 a very strong diversion be created in the cur- 
 rent of public taste, there is little reason to sup-
 
 I'I{|.FA< i;. \; 
 
 |>08e that the expenment of a j3oem of leiiglli, 
 whetlier purely epic — of the class of poetical 
 romance — or of a descriptive character, — 
 would now be attended with success. In the 
 interim, therefore, it is hoped that the present 
 unpretending volume, " The Lyre," and its 
 pendant, " The Laurel," will not he deemed 
 an unacceptable offering to the lovers of poetry, 
 combining, as they do, a large proportion of 
 the most beautiful occasional poems, fugitive 
 and otherwise, which have appeared in the 
 various periodical pul)lications of the last 
 thirty years. 
 
 \n lorming this bouquet, however, a \ icw 
 has been had to the selection of as many 
 poetical flowers from comparatively unknown 
 sources as possible; so that whilst it comprises 
 those specimens scattered through other books 
 of the same order, and without which no 
 collection can be ticemed complete ; it will 
 also be found to include a great variety of 
 poems which are not to be mot in any otiicr 
 \olume of the kind. Among these, the atten-
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 tion of the reader is particularly directed to 
 the numerous and beautiful specimens of 
 American poetry (carefully selected from a 
 great number of Transatlantic publications), 
 with which the following- pages, and those of 
 the Laurel have been enriched. In quantity, 
 these little volumes will be found to rival 
 many works of a more bulky and expensive 
 ibrm.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Poetry. By J. G. Percival 
 
 Sardanapalus at the Temple of Belus 
 
 To a sleeping Child. By Professor Wilson 
 
 Night. By James Montgomery 
 
 The Voice of ^Midnight .... 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish Lassie. By the llev. 
 J. Moultrie 
 
 Weep not for her. By D. M. IMoir 
 
 Better Moments. By N. P. Willis . 
 
 Tlie iNIay-flowers of Life. By Alaric A. \Natls 
 
 Curtius. By Miss Landon 
 
 To the Spirit of Poesy. By J. S. Clarke 
 
 A Strain of Music. By Mrs. Hemans 
 
 A Il.-ahh. By E. C.Pinkney . 
 
 The Serenade ..... 
 
 On some Skulls in Beaulieu Abbey 
 
 A Sketch from Real Life. By Alaric A. Watts 
 
 The Sicilian \'espers. By J. G. Whittier . 
 
 A Retrospective Review ..... 
 
 lo the Owl 
 
 On the Death of Ismael Fitzadani. By Miss Lan- 
 don ........ 
 
 1 tliink of thet". JJy T. K. Ilervey 
 
 Kxcuse for not fulfdling an Lngagement. By Mrs. 
 Sigourney 
 
 Page 
 1 
 3 
 5 
 7 
 9 
 
 10 
 13 
 14 
 16 
 IH 
 
 23 
 2ii 
 ^8 
 
 ;>i 
 
 33
 
 XIV CONTENTS. 
 
 Pact- 
 Forget thee 1 By the Rev. J. Moultrie . . 46 
 Address to a Wild Deer. By Professor Wilson 47 
 Serenade, Bv G. F. Houseman . . . .49 
 'Tis home where'er the heart is ... 49 
 The Lute. By the Rev. G. Croly ... 50 
 There may be pleasure in the Sound . . 52 
 Drinking Song. By Lord Byron . . .53 
 To Lord Byron. By Thomas Moore . . 54 
 The American Eagle. By C. W. Thomson . , 55 
 To the Author of " Poetical Sketches." By Miss 
 
 Landon ....... 58 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore. By the Rev. C. 
 
 Wolfe 59 
 
 The War of the League. By T. Macauley . 60 
 
 The neglected Child. By T. H. Bayly . . 63 
 
 ^V here are they ? By John Malcolm . . 65 
 
 To Mrs. Hemans 66 
 
 The INIinster. By Mrs. Hemans ... 68 
 
 Thekla's Song, from the German of Schiller . . 70 
 
 The ^Lolian Harp. By Alaric A, Watts . . 71 
 Consumption. By J. G. Percival . . .73 
 To the Author of the " Sorrows of Rosalie." By 
 
 Miss Landon ....... 75 
 
 On the Funeral of Charles the First, at Xight, in 
 
 St. George's Chapel, Windsor. By the Rev. 
 
 W. L. Bowles 79 
 
 The sculptured Children, by Chan trey at Litchfield. 
 
 By Mrs. Hemans 80 
 
 jMy own Fireside. By Alaric A. Watts . . 82 
 
 The frosted Trees 84 
 
 The Bugle. By Grenville Mellen . . . 85 
 Address to Lord Byron, on the Publication of 
 
 Childe Harold. By Granville Penn . . 87
 
 CONTENTS. XV 
 
 Page 
 
 Culloden 92 
 
 The Shipwreck of Camoens .... 94 
 
 To the Cricket. By the Rev. T. Cole . . 97 
 
 Song. By jNIiss Landon .... 98 
 
 Recollections 99 
 
 The unknown Grave. By D. M. Moir . . 101 
 The Return of Francis the First from Captivity. 
 
 By Miss Jewsbury ..... 104 
 
 The Graves of a Household. By Mrs. Ilemans 106 
 
 'I'he Poet's Bridal Song. By Allan Cunningham 107 
 
 A Storm. By Barry Cornwall . . . 109 
 Knvov to the Author's Translation of Tasso. By 
 
 J.II. Wiffen J 11 
 
 Midnight. ByD. M. ISIoir . . . . 113 
 Seasons for Loving. Jiy W. C. Bryant . .114 
 
 Sappho. By ^liss Landon . . . . 116 
 The Lost Pleiad. By Mrs. Ilemans . . .118 
 On a Portrait supposed to be that of Nell Gwynn. 
 
 By Alaric A. Watts 119 
 
 A Farewell to England. By J. Ritchie . . I'Jl 
 
 'J"he Indian Hunter. By H. W. Longfellow . l'J3 
 An Indian at theBurying-place ofliis Fathers. By 
 
 W. C. Bryant 1'24 
 
 The Treasures of the Deep. By 3Irs. Ileniaiis l'J7 
 'i'he Return from India . . . . .1*28 
 Childe Harold's last Pilgrimage. By the Rev. 
 
 W. L. Bowles I.JO 
 
 Stanzas l.>2 
 
 Reproach me not . . . . . i:>3 
 
 An Italian Boat Song. By H. L. Bulwcr . . l.'}."> 
 
 The Bridal Dirge. By Barry Cornwall . . 136 
 
 To the Picture of a dead Girl. By T. K. Hervey 1.57
 
 XVI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Launch of the Xautilus. By the Rev. E. Bar 
 
 naid 
 
 I saw thee wedded. By the Rev. J. Moultrie 
 
 Field Plowers. By T. Campbell 
 
 Song. By the Rev. T. Dale .... 
 
 Flodden Field. By Delta 
 
 To the Ivy. By Mrs. Hemans 
 
 Song. By the Rev. C. Wolfe . 
 
 My Birthday. By X. P. Willis . 
 
 Song, for the Fourteenth of February . 
 
 The Ship. By John Malcolm 
 
 Household Hours. By S. L. Fairfield 
 
 Stanzas written by the Seaside. Bv Miss Jews 
 
 bury ....... 
 
 The Xorthern Star 
 
 Tlie Girl and the Hawk. By Alaric A. Watts 
 
 INIarco Bozzaris. By Fitz Greene Halleck 
 
 To tlie Poet Wordsworth. By Mrs. Hemans 
 
 Address to an Egyptian Mummy. By Horace 
 
 Smith 
 
 Love's Philosophy. By P. B. Shelly 
 
 Stanzas. By Thomas Hood . . 
 
 The East Indiaman. By the Author of Rouge et 
 
 X'^oir ....... 
 
 Stanzas, written in the Churchyard of Richmond 
 
 Yorkshire. By Herbert Knowles . 
 On hearing the Roarr of the Sea at X'ight 
 Kirkstall Abbey revisited. By Alaric A. Watts 
 On seeing a deceased Infant. By W. B. Peabody 
 The Coral Insect. By Mrs. Sigourney . 
 Stanzas for an Arabian Air . . . . 
 
 An Evening Walk in Bengal. By Bishop Heber
 
 CONTENTS. XVll 
 
 P.tgc 
 
 The Poet's Deathbed. By John INlalcohii . 11)3 
 
 Song . . . . . . . . I'.H 
 
 The Coral Grove. By J. G. Percival . . l9.'-> 
 
 My Mother's Grave . . . . . 1*'6 
 
 On a Picture 1 <>7 
 
 The Close of Autumn. By W. C. Bryant . . 19» 
 
 Lines on a Skull 200 
 
 ISIy Birthday. By Thomas Moore . . . 201 
 
 Lord Byron's last A'erses .... 203 
 
 The Convict Ship. By T. K. Hervey . . 204 
 
 The Ship at Sea. By John Malcolm . . 206 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers. By John Pierj)oint , 208 
 Stanzas, on the Loss of the Saldanah. ]5y Thomas 
 
 Sheridan 209 
 
 A Sketch from real Life. By Alaric A. Watts . 212 
 
 The last Swallow. By Richard Ilowitt . 214 
 
 Bring back the Chain. By the Hon. Mrs. Norton 215 
 
 Couldfit thou but know. By Lady C. Lamb . 217 
 
 Abjuration. By Miss Bowles ... . 217 
 
 The End of Time 220 
 
 The Hebrew ^lother. By Mrs, Hemans . . 222 
 
 On parting with my Books, liy Leigh llimt . 225 
 
 Napoleon Moribundus. By Charles Macarlhy . 22() 
 
 I'he North-wester. By John Malcolm . . 227 
 
 Song 22» 
 
 On seeing the Endymion of Albano . . 229 
 
 The Chance Ship. By i'rofcssor Wilson . 230 
 Temple of Jupiter Olympius at Athens. By 1. 
 
 K. Hervey 231 
 
 To Miss Mitford. liy INIrs. Hofland . . 233 
 
 To Fanny B. By J. H. Reynolds . . . 236 
 
 Itwasnotfor the Diamond Ring. By W.Kennedy '2iVJ 
 
 Behave yoursel'. before Folk. Jiy A. Rodgcrs '.'I')
 
 XVm CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Secret 242 
 
 Song. By Percy Rolle .... 242 
 
 A Sketch from real Life. Bv Ismael Fitzadam 243 
 
 To a Profile. By Bernard Barton . . . 245 
 
 The Unbending, By W. Motherwell . . 246 
 
 The tuneful Spirit 247 
 
 My Father's House 248 
 
 The Cypress. By Miss Landon . . . 250 
 
 Stanzas. By W. Kennedy .... 251 
 
 Song. By Lord Byron .... 252 
 
 The Flight of Xerxes. By Miss Jewsbury . 253 
 
 The Song of Perdita ..... 254 
 
 Stanzas. By T. K. Hervey .... 255 
 Lines to a young Lady, on her Marriage. By 
 
 G. M. Fitzgerald ..... 256 
 
 Byron. By \V. Kennedy 258 
 
 Stanzas for Evening. By Laman Blanchard . 259 
 Farewell to Wales. By Mrs. Hemans . .261 
 
 The Rhine 261 
 
 The dying Gladiator. By E. Chinnery , . 26^ 
 
 On the Death of the Poet Shelley . . . 264 
 Hymn of the Moravian Nims, at the Consecration 
 
 of Pulaski's Banner 266 
 
 The Nightingale Flower .... 267 
 
 A last Remembrance. By \V. Kennedy . . 269 
 
 To May. By Lord Thurlow . . " . . 271 
 The dead Infant. A Sketch . . . .272 
 
 The escaped Convict. By Charles Swaiu . 273 
 
 The Legend of Genevieve. By Delta . . 275 
 
 The Pixies of Devon. By N. T. Carrington . 277 
 Lines written beneath a Bust of Shakspeare. By 
 
 Henry Neele 279 
 
 Stanzas '^80
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Student 
 
 iAutumn Flowers ..... 
 
 Stanzas, written at Naples .... 
 
 Written in a Latly's Album. By John ^Malcolm 
 
 The Churchyard. By Miss Bowles 
 
 The Dreamer ...... 
 
 The Family Picture. By Sir Aubrey de Vere, Bart. 
 The Grave of Korner. By INIrs. Ilemans . 
 Song. By Hartley Coleridge .... 
 
 Prince William of England 
 
 A Lament for Chivalry ..... 
 
 Songofa Greek Islanderin Exile. By INIrs. Ilemans 
 Saturday Afternoon. By K. P. Willis 
 Autumnal Leaves ..... 
 
 Stanzas. By Lord Byron .... 
 
 The Fisher. From the German of Goethe . 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 The Bridal Morning ..... 
 
 The Song of the Charib .... 
 
 On the Picture of a young Girl 
 
 The green Holly Bough .... 
 
 Song. By Thomas Moore 
 
 Yellow Leaves ...... 
 
 Morality in Moderation .... 
 
 The Warrior. By Allan Cunningham 
 J^ines, by a Lady, on observing some white Hairs 
 on her Lover's Head .... 
 
 The Country Girl. By W. Wordsworth 
 
 Stanzas. By Lord Byron 
 
 Song. By Gerald Gritlin .... 
 
 Song. By the fUtrick Shepherd 
 
 I do not love thee ..... 
 
 Late Repentance. By W. Kennedy
 
 \X CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 Pase 
 
 Love. Bv Henry Xeele .... 
 
 321 
 
 Song .' 
 
 322 
 
 Ellen. A Fragment. By IMiss Landon 
 
 323 
 
 Solace in Sorrow 
 
 325 
 
 Rosalind with a Chain . . . . . 
 
 326 
 
 Remember me ...... 
 
 327 
 
 Nil desperandum 
 
 328 
 
 Six Songs. By Miss Landon. 
 
 
 1. Love 
 
 329 
 
 2. Constancy ..... 
 
 329 
 
 2. Romance ...... 
 
 331 
 
 4. Inconstancy ..... 
 
 331 
 
 .5. Truth 
 
 332 
 
 6. Marriage . . ... 
 
 333 
 
 To a Child. By Joaxma Baillie 
 
 334 
 
 The dying Exile. By E. Reade 
 
 . 33.^ 
 
 The Storm . 
 
 336 
 
 Resignation 
 
 . 339 
 
 The Bechuana Boy. By W. Pringle 
 
 340 
 
 The Village Funeral .... 
 
 . 346 
 
 The Tomb of Romeo and Juliet. By ]Miss Landon 
 
 347 
 
 Funeral Song, for the Princess Charlotte of Wales. 
 
 
 By Robert Southey, P. L 
 
 348
 
 THE LYRE. 
 
 rOETRY. 
 
 UV JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 The world is full of Poetry — the air 
 Is living with its spirit; and the waves 
 Dance to the music of its melodies, 
 And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd 
 And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls, 
 That close the universe with crystal in, 
 Arc eloquent with voices, that proclaim 
 TIk.' unseen glories of immensity. 
 In luirmonies, too perfect, and too high, 
 I'or aught but beings of celestial mould. 
 And speak to man in one eternal hymn 
 Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 
 
 The year leads round the seasons, in a choir 
 
 I'or ever charming, and for ever new ; 
 
 niending the grand, the beautiful, the gay, 
 
 The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, 
 
 ^N hich steals into the heart, like sounds, thai rise 
 
 I'ar (»H", in moonlight evenings, on the shore 
 
 < >f the wide ocean resting after storms ; 
 
 Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof. 
 
 And pointed arches, and retiring aisles 
 
 Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand 
 
 Skilful, and moved, with j)assionate love of art, 
 
 D
 
 Plays o'er the liigher keys, and bears aloft 
 The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls 
 By mellow touches, from the softer tubes, 
 Voices of melting tenderness, that blend 
 With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, 
 Commingling with the melody, is borne, 
 Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven. 
 
 Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move 
 
 In measured tile, and metrical array ; 
 
 Tis not the union of returning sounds. 
 
 Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme. 
 
 And Cjuantity, and accent, that can give 
 
 This all pervading spirit to the ear, 
 
 Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
 
 'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines 
 
 Man with the world around him, in a chain 
 
 Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till 
 
 He tastes the high communion of his thoughts, 
 
 With all existences, in earth and heaven, 
 
 That meet him in the chanii of grace and power. 
 
 'Tis not the noisy babl)ler, who displays. 
 
 In studied phrase, and ornate epithet. 
 
 And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts. 
 
 Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments 
 
 That overload their littleness. Its words 
 
 Are few, but deep and solemn ; "and they break 
 
 Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 
 
 Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired 
 
 The holy prophet, when his lips were coals. 
 
 His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts 
 
 Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath, 
 
 Coramission'd to affright us, and destroy.
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 AT THE TEMPLE OF BELL'S. 
 
 This spacious mausoleum holds 
 
 Proud dust in many a worsliip'd shrine 
 
 Yon massive golden urn enfolds 
 The Founder of our line. 
 
 In gloomy grandeur, here are laid 
 
 Tiie gods our regal race have made. 
 
 Yes, here are sleeping side by side 
 
 The gods Assyrian queens have borne : 
 
 Warriors by madmen deified. 
 And tyrants overthrown. 
 
 Why, since my sires are all divine, 
 
 Am I, their son, denied a shrine ? 
 
 I have unto my people been 
 A father, brother, and a friend ! 
 
 Go to the Western Islandmen — 
 Go eastward to mine empire's end ; 
 
 If there he one hath wrong of me, 
 
 Ilim, fourfold recompense shall see. 
 
 I loved the glittering javelin not — 
 I did not love war's bloody suit ; 
 
 I left the tield where nations fought, 
 To listen to thu lute ; 
 
 I pass'd tiie prancing war-horse by. 
 
 To gaze at beauty's melting eye. 
 
 I never crush'd Assyria's sons 
 To l)uild Colossal temples high ; 
 
 I bade the sire his little ones 
 NN'atch with a parent's eye. 
 
 Throughout the land no vassal strives 
 
 With a hard lord, nor wears his gyves.
 
 SARDANAPALU5. 
 
 I bade ray subjects plant the vine 
 
 Throughout the realms my sceptre sways 
 
 I bade them quaff the generous wme, 
 And feast away their days. 
 
 Sardanapalus thence hath lost 
 
 His golden shrine and holocaust. 
 
 For had I made the rivers dance 
 
 With waves of blood from prostrate foes ; 
 And couch'd a warrior's murdering lance, 
 
 And broke my land's repose ; 
 Then had my glory walk'd abroad 
 And I had been enshrined a god. 
 
 What else but wide-spread carnage made 
 The founder of our line a god ? 
 
 A man, whose dark ambition bade 
 Earth be a crimson'd sod ; 
 
 A bloody hunter, yet behold ! 
 
 His shrine is of thrice beaten gold. 
 
 And she, the queen of Belus' son. 
 
 Who built this sanctuary high, 
 And plann'd it — proud presuming one ! 
 
 With roof-tree laid against the sky ; 
 Because she loved war, — when she died 
 Wide realms her queenship deified. 
 
 But I, because my regal day 
 
 Hath been array'd in pleasure's dress ; 
 Because I courted music's lay 
 
 And beauty's dear caress ; 
 Because I women loved, and wine. 
 Am thence to be denied a shrine.
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 Art thou a thing of mortal birth, 
 Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
 Does human blood with life embue 
 Those wandering veins of iieavenly blue, 
 That stray along thy forehead fair, 
 Lost 'mid a gleam of golden liair? 
 Oh ! can that light and airy breath 
 Steal from a being doom'd to death ; 
 Those features to the grave be sent 
 In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; 
 Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
 The phantom of a blessed dream ? 
 
 A human shape I feel thou art, 
 
 I feel it at my beating heart, 
 
 Those tremors both of soul and sense 
 
 Awoke by infant innocence ! 
 
 Though dear tlie forms by fancy wove, 
 
 \N'e love them with a transient love. 
 
 Thoughts from the living world intrude 
 
 Even on her deepest solitude : 
 
 But, lovely child ! thy magic stole 
 
 At once into my inmost soul, 
 
 With feelings as thy bttauty fair, 
 
 And left no other vision there. 
 
 To me thy parents are unknown ; 
 filad would they be their child to own! 
 And well they must have lo\ed before. 
 If since thy birth they loved not more. 
 Thou art a brancli of noble stem. 
 And, seeing thee, I figure them.
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 What many a childless one would give, 
 If thou in tlieir still home would'st live ! 
 Though in thy face no family line 
 Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine !" 
 In time thou would'st become the same 
 As their own child, — all but the name ! 
 
 How happy must thy parents be 
 Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
 Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
 Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, 
 And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
 By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 
 What joy must in their souls have stirr'd 
 When thy first broken words were heard, 
 Words, that, inspired by Heaven, express'd 
 The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
 And for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow, 
 Even while I gaze, are kindling now. 
 
 I called thee duteous ; am I wrong ? 
 No ! truth, I feel, is in my song : 
 Duteous thy heart's still beatings move 
 To God, to Nature, and to Love ! 
 To God ! — for thou a harmless child 
 Hast kept his temple undefiled : 
 To Nature ! — for thy tears and sighs 
 Obey alone her mysteries : 
 To Love ! — for fiends of hate might see 
 Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee ! 
 What w^onder then, though in tliy dreams 
 Thy f.ice with mystic meaning beams ! 
 
 Oh ! that my spirit's eye could see 
 Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
 That light of dreaming soul appears 
 To play from thoughts above thy years.
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring 
 To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! 
 And who can tell what visions high 
 May bless an infant's sleeping eye? 
 What brighter throne can brightness find 
 To reign on than an infant's mind, 
 Ere sin destroy, or error dim. 
 The c;lory of the Seraphim ? 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMEnY. 
 
 Nig ITT is the time for rest; 
 
 How sweet, when labours close, 
 To gather round an aching breast 
 
 The curtain of repose ; 
 Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head 
 Upon our own delightful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time for dreams, 
 
 The gay romance of life ; 
 When truth that is and truth that seems 
 
 Blend in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah ! visions less beguiling far 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 
 
 Night is the time for toil ; 
 
 To plou'^h the classic field. 
 Intent to find the buried s|)oil 
 
 Its wealthy fiirrows yield ; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught. 
 That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep ; 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 Those graves of memory where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ;
 
 Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
 } But perish'd young, like things of earth ! 
 
 Night is the time to watch ; 
 
 On ocean's dark expanse, 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance, 
 Tliat brings unto the homesick mind 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
 Night is the time for care ; 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent, 
 To see the spectre of despair 
 
 Come to our lonely tent ; 
 Like Biiitus midst his slumbering host 
 Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. 
 
 Night is the time to muse; 
 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 Takes flight, and with expanding views 
 
 Beyond the starry pole ; 
 Descries athwart the abyss of night 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 Night is the time to pray; 
 
 Our Saviour oft withdrew 
 To desert mountains far away. 
 
 So will his followers do ; 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 And hold communion there with God. 
 
 Night is the time for death ; 
 
 When all around is peace, 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath 
 
 From sin and suffering cease ; 
 Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign. 
 To parting friends : — such death be mine !
 
 THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT. 
 
 When night sits on the earth, and tower and town 
 Are sleeping in tlie sea of silvery light, 
 That pourelh from the moon who gazeth down, 
 Bathing earth's emerald wheels in glory bright ; 
 
 When e'en the night wind and the restless sea 
 Wander in silence, by the hour spell-bound ; 
 When e'en the rustling of the shadowy tree 
 Is hush'd — the welkin bringeth forth a sound ; — 
 
 It is not in the sea, nor in the air ; 
 It is not on the valley, nor the hill ; 
 There comes no warning from the sepulchre, 
 AntJ yet the wing of silence is not still ! 
 
 Is it the music of some distant sphere 
 Upon the lonely moonshine clearly borne .' 
 For faintly comes tb.e wild sound on my ear. 
 As when together sung the stars of morn. 
 
 I look around — still is each gloomy tree — 
 
 The waves at rest — the wind's dread flag is furl'd ; 
 
 As if, so still the aery minstrelsy, 
 
 It were the day-sounds of another world. 
 
 So once the holy bird sang all night long. 
 Till broke the day-star's beam on lit'thlchem ; 
 His red uprising stay'd the fearful song, 
 lilazing on dewy morning's diadem. 
 
 Is it the rushing sound of years to come, 
 Thrown from the bosom of the endless sea. 
 Billows of lime, tlmt on the outskirts roam 
 Of the dread ocean of eternity ? 
 
 B 2
 
 10 THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Is it the fair)' band's unearthly sound ? 
 
 Or spirits whispering in the middle air? 
 
 Or swinging chains by which the stars are bound. 
 
 To guide their golden chariots ever>' where ? 
 
 Perchance 'tis Fancy's voice — the sound of dreams. 
 Or the fiend slumbering in the aconite ; 
 We may not know — yet to the bard it seems 
 Thi voi.e of conscience in the ear of night. 
 
 HERE'S TO THEE, MY 'SCOTTISH LASSIE, 
 
 EY THE KEV. JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 
 Here's to thee^ my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee. 
 For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step 
 
 so firm and free ; 
 For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace. 
 For the music of thy mirthfiil voice, and the sunshine 
 
 of thy face ; 
 For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet 
 
 as speech can be. 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee ! 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though my glow 
 of youth is o'er; 
 
 And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and 
 dream no more ; 
 
 Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has 
 chill'd my soul at last, 
 
 And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friend- 
 ship past ; 
 
 Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this 
 world's drear}- sea, — 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty 
 health to thee !
 
 IIERES TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. 11 
 
 Here's to tliee, my Scottish lassie ! — though I know 
 
 that not for me 
 Is iliine eye so bright, thy form so light, and tiiy step 
 
 so tirm and free ; 
 Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often 
 
 pass me by, 
 Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful 
 
 eye ; 
 Tliough thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste 
 
 one thought on me, — 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee ! 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I meet thee 
 
 in the throng 
 Of merrj' youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely 
 
 along, 
 I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy 
 
 form, 
 As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning 
 
 through a storm ; 
 And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy 
 
 looks of glee, 
 And for once, my Scottish lassie ! dance a giddy dance^ 
 
 with tliee. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! — I shall think of 
 
 thee at even. 
 When I see its first and fuire.-it star come smiling uj) 
 
 through heaven ; 
 I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every 
 
 wind that grieves. 
 As it whirls from the abandon'd oak, its witiier'd 
 
 autumn leaves ; 
 In the gloom of liie wild forest, in the stillness of the sea, 
 I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often thmk 
 
 of thee.
 
 1 2 HERE S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. 
 
 Here's to thee, ray Scottish lassie! — in my sad and 
 
 lonely hours, 
 The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of 
 
 distant flowers ; — 
 l.ike the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that 
 
 bless mine eye, 
 Like the verdure of the meadow,like the azure ofthesky; 
 Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on 
 
 the tree, 
 Is the thought, my Scottish lassie ! is the lonely thought 
 
 of thee. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottisli lassie ! — though my muse 
 
 must soon be dumb, 
 (For graver thoughts and duties, Avith my graver years, 
 
 are come,) 
 Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and 
 
 learn to soar on high. 
 And to look on this world's follies with a calm and 
 
 sober eye ; 
 Though the merrj' w ine must seldom floAV, the revel 
 
 cease for me, — 
 Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! still I'll drink a health 
 
 to thee. 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a parting 
 
 health to thee ; 
 May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far 
 
 from me ! 
 May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still 
 
 thy brow. 
 Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as 
 
 light as now ! 
 And, whatsoe'er mv after fate, mv dearest toast shall 
 
 be,- 
 Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health 
 
 to thee !
 
 13 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR IIER! 
 
 BY D. M. MOin. 
 
 Weki' not for her! llcr span was like the sky, 
 
 NN'hose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, 
 Like flowers that know not what it is to die. 
 
 Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light, 
 Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 
 While echo answers from the flowery brake, 
 
 Weep not for her ! 
 Weep not for her! She died in early youth, 
 
 Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues, 
 When human bosoms seem'd tlie homes of truth. 
 
 And earth still gleam'd witli beauty's radiant dews. 
 Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze, 
 Her u'hu of life was not run to the lees : 
 
 Weep not for her! 
 NN'eep not for her ! By fleet or slow decay 
 
 It never grieved her bosom's core to mark 
 The playmates of her childhood wane away. 
 
 Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. 
 Translated by her God with spirit shriven. 
 She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven : 
 
 NN'eep not for her ! 
 Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel 
 
 The miseries that corrode amassing years, 
 'CJainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel. 
 
 To wander sad down age's veil of tears. 
 As whirl the withcr'd leaves from friendship's tree. 
 And on earth's wintrv wold alone to be: 
 
 \N Ccj) not lor her! 
 Weep not for her ! She is an angel now, 
 
 And treads the sapphire floors of I'aradise, 
 All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, 
 
 Sin, sorrow, suflering, banish'd from her eyes.
 
 14 WEEP NOT FOR HER. 
 
 Victorious over death to her appears, 
 The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years : 
 
 Weep not for her ! 
 Weep not for her ! Her memory is the shrine 
 
 Of pleasant thoughts soft as the scent of tiowers, 
 Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, 
 
 Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 
 Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, 
 Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : 
 
 Weep not for her ! 
 Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe, 
 
 But rather nerve the spirit that it walk 
 Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below. 
 
 And from earth's low defilements keep thee back, 
 So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, 
 She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate — and lead thee on 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 BETTER MOMENTS. 
 
 BY X. P. WILLIS. 
 
 My mother's voice ! how oft doth creep 
 
 Its cadence on my lonely hours! 
 Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 
 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 I can forget her melting prayer 
 
 While leaping pulses madly fly. 
 But in the still unbroken air 
 
 Her gentle tone comes stealing by, 
 And years, and sin, and manhood flee. 
 And leave me at my mother's knee. 
 The book of nature, and the prmt 
 
 Of beauty on the whispering sea. 
 Give aye to me some lineament 
 
 Of what I have been taught to be.
 
 BETTER MOMENTS. 15 
 
 My lieart is harder, and perhaps 
 
 My manliness hath drunk up tears. 
 And there's a mildew in the lapse 
 
 Ufa few miserable years; 
 But nature's book is even yet 
 With all my mother's lessons writ. 
 I have been out at eventide 
 
 Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, 
 When earth was garnish'd like a bride. 
 And night had on her silver wing; — 
 When bursting leaves and diamond grass. 
 
 And waters leaping to the light, 
 And all that makes the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness throng'd the night; — 
 When all was beauty — then have I 
 
 With friends on whom my love is flung 
 Like myrrh on wings of Araby, 
 
 Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. 
 And when the beautiful spirit there 
 Flung over me its golden chain. 
 My mother's voice came on the air 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain ; 
 And resting on some silver star 
 Tlie spirit of a bended knee, 
 I've ])0ur'd her low and fervent prayer 
 
 That our eternity might be 
 To rise in Heaven like stars at night. 
 And tread a living path of Ii;;ht! 
 I have been on the dewy hills 
 
 When night was stealing from the dawn 
 And mist was on the waking rills, 
 And tints were delicately drawn 
 In the gray east — when birds were waking 
 
 With a low murmur in the trees, 
 A melody by fits was breaking 
 
 I'pon the whisper of the breeze, 
 And this when I was forth, ])erchance 
 As a worn reveller from the dance —
 
 16 BETTER MOMENTS. 
 
 And when the sun sprang gloriously 
 
 And freely up, and hill and river 
 Were catching upon wave and tree 
 
 The arrows from his subtle quiver — 
 I say a voice has thrill'd me then, 
 
 Heard on the still and rushing light. 
 Or creeping from the silent glen 
 
 Like words from the departing night. 
 Hath stricken me, and I have press'd 
 
 On the wet grass my fever'd brow, 
 And pouring forth the earliest 
 
 First prayer, with which I learn'd to bov 
 Have felt my mother's spirit rush 
 
 Upon me as in by-past years, 
 And yielding to the blessed gush 
 
 Of my ungovernable tears, 
 Have risen up — the gay, the wild — 
 As humble as a very child. 
 
 THE M AY-FLO V>'ERS OF LIFE. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 Suggested by the Autlior's having found a branch of May in a 
 volume of Burns's Poems, which had been deposited there, by 
 a Friend, several years before. 
 
 Memorial frail of youthful years. 
 
 Of hopes as wild and bright as they, 
 Thy faint, sweet perfume call up tears 
 
 I may not, cannot wish away ! 
 Thy wither'd leaves are as a spell 
 
 To bring the sainted past before me ; 
 And long-lost visions loved loo well, 
 
 In all their truth restore me.
 
 THE MAY-FLOWERS OF LIFE. 17 
 
 Cold is her hand who placed thee here, 
 
 Thou record sweet of Love and Spring, 
 Ere life's May-flowers, like thee, grew sere. 
 
 Or Hope had waved her parting wing: 
 When Boyhood's burning dreams were mine. 
 
 And Fancy's magic circlet crown'd me; 
 And Love, when love is half divine, 
 
 Spread its enchantments round me ! 
 
 How can I e'er forget the hour 
 
 When thou wert glowing on her breast. 
 Fresh from the dewy hawthorn bower 
 
 That look'd upon the golden west! 
 She snatch'd thee from thy sacred shrine, — 
 
 A brighter fate she scarce could doom thee, — 
 And bade a poet's wreath be thine, — 
 
 His deathless page entomb thee ! 
 
 That hour is past, — those dreams are fled, — 
 
 Ties, sweeter, holier, bind me now ; 
 And, if life's tirst May-flowers are dead, 
 
 Its summer garland wreathes my brow ! 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! — I would but gaze 
 
 A moment on thy faded bloom ; 
 Heave one wild sigh to other days, 
 
 Then close thy hallow'd tomb ! 
 
 August 20, 1825.
 
 CURTIUS. 
 
 There is a multitude, in number like 
 
 The waves of the wide ocean; and as still 
 
 As are those waters, when the summer breeze 
 
 Sleeps on the moveless billow ; there is awe 
 
 On every countenance ; and each doth stand 
 
 In gasping breathlessness, as terror chain'd 
 
 The life pulse down ; or, as they deem'd, a sound 
 
 Might call down new destruction on their heads. — 
 
 The sun look'd smiling from his clear blue throne, 
 
 And nature seem'd to gladden in the ray ; 
 
 When suddenly a cloud came over heaven, 
 
 A black and terrible shadow, as the gloom 
 
 Of the destroying angel's form ; the wind 
 
 Swept past with hollow murmur ; and the birds 
 
 Ceasing their song of joyfulness, with mute 
 
 And quick and tremulous flight, for shelter sought! 
 
 Fear was on every living thing : the earth 
 
 Trembled as she presaged some coming ill ; 
 
 The voice of thunder spake ; and in the midst 
 
 Of that proud city, in the midst of Rome, 
 
 The ground was riven in twain ; and on the spot, 
 
 Where human steps had but so lately been. 
 
 There yawn'd a fearful gulf, dark as the powers 
 
 Of hell were gather'd there — no eye might scan 
 
 That fathomless abyss. The Augur's voice 
 
 Hath told the will of heaven — nought may close 
 
 That gulf of terror, till it is the grave 
 
 Of all Rome holds most precious. Then speeds forth 
 
 A youthful warrior — " What is dear to Rome, 
 
 But patriot valour ? Ye infernal Gods, 
 
 Who now look wrathful from your deep abodes, 
 
 Behold your ready sacrifice !" He comes,
 
 19 
 
 Arm'd as for battle, save no plumed iielm 
 His black hair presses': he is on the steed 
 Which has so often borne him to tiie held. — 
 Young Curtius came, but with a brow as firm, 
 And cheek unchanged, as he was wont to wear, 
 When lie essay 'd the glorious strife of men ; 
 Pride glanced upon his eye — but pride that seem'd 
 As a remembrance of the higher state 
 In which aspiring spirits move ; whose thoughts 
 Of avarice, indolence, and selfish care, 
 The chains of meaner ones, have given way 
 liefore the mighty fire of the high soul — 
 Whose hojie is immortality, whose steps 
 Are steps of flame, on which the many gaze, 
 But dare not follow. He one moment paused, 
 And cast a farewell look on all around. 
 How beautiful must be the sky above. 
 And fair the earth beneath, to him who gives 
 A lingering look, and knows it is his last! — 
 Then onward urged his courser. — Hark ! a voice, 
 A wild shriek rings upon the air: he turn'd. 
 And his glance fell on her, his own dear love. 
 She rush'd upon his bosom silently. 
 As if her life were in that last embrace. 
 All was so still around, that every sob, 
 And the heart's throb of agony, were heard. 
 He clasp'd her, without power to soothe her grief. 
 But press'd her coral lij) — did never flower 
 Yield fresher incense forth ! — and kiss'd away 
 The tears on her ])ale cheek, then on her gazed. — 
 All his deep feeling, anguish, high resolves. 
 And love intense, were in that passionate glance. 
 Fie clasp'd Iut wildly, and his dark eye swam 
 In tenderness ; but he has ntTved his soul — 
 He has spurr'd on — and the dread gulf is closed I
 
 20 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY. 
 
 BY J. S. CLARKE. 
 
 O, HOLY spirit ! oft when eve 
 
 Hath slowly o'er the western sky 
 Her gorgeous pall begun to weave, 
 
 Of gold and crimson's richest dye, 
 I've thought the gentle gales thy breath, 
 
 The murmuring of the grove thy voice ; 
 And heaven above, and earth beneath, 
 
 In thee seem'd to rejoice. 
 
 Sweet visions then that sleep by day 
 
 Thy magic wand hath made mine own, 
 As brilliant as the clouds that play 
 
 Around the sun's descending throne ; 
 And I have striven in many a song 
 
 To pay my homage at thy shrine ; — 
 A worthless offering for a throng 
 
 Of joys by thee made mine ! 
 
 What though the idle wreath would fade, 
 
 By weak, though willing, fingers twined, 
 Soon gather'd to oblivion's shade. 
 
 Not less the task would soothe my mind : 
 Inspired by thee I ceased to pine. 
 
 Nor thought on aught that marr'd my bliss ; 
 And borne to other worlds of thine. 
 
 Forgot the pangs of this ! 
 
 But this was ail in earlier days, 
 
 When boyhood's hopes were wild and high, 
 And eaglet-like I fix'd my gaze 
 
 Where glory's sun blazed through the sky ; 
 But fate and circumstance forbade 
 
 The noble, though presumptuous flight — 
 Those hopes are blasted and decay 'd 
 
 By disappointment's blight.
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY. 21 
 
 My soul is daring now as then, 
 
 Though fate denies its strong desire, — 
 Still, still I hear the voice within, 
 
 The stirring voice that cries * aspire ;' 
 It haunts me like the sounds that ring 
 
 In dying guilt's distemjier'd ear, 
 When round his couch, dim — hovering, 
 
 His crimes like ghosts appear! 
 
 Oh Poesy ! thou too hast now 
 
 Withdrawn thy wonted influence, 
 When most I need thy tender glow 
 
 To renovate each aching sense. 
 No more thy dreams before me pass 
 
 In swift succession, bright and fair ; 
 And when I would unveil thy glass. 
 
 Thou show'st me but despair! 
 
 And now whene'er I seek the bowers 
 
 Where fancy led my steps to thee, 
 liefore my eyes a desert lours. 
 
 The cold reality I see. 
 INIy gloomy bosom's joyless cell 
 
 No ray of thine illumines more, 
 Which once could guide my spirit well 
 
 O'er every ill to soar. 
 
 By all the intense love of thee 
 
 That fires my soul and thrills my frame ! 
 By tears thou giv'st thy words to be, 
 
 When struggling feelings have no name! 
 Return, return ! By thee upborne. 
 
 And by a yet unvanquish'd will, 
 The malice of rhy fate I'll scorn 
 
 In woe lriumj)hanl still !
 
 22 
 
 A STRAIN OF MUSIC. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMAXS. 
 
 1 am never merry when I hear sweet mnsic. 
 
 Merchant of Vlmce. 
 
 Ou ! joyously, Iriumphanily, sweet sounds ! ye swell 
 
 and float, 
 A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on 
 
 every note ; 
 And yet my full o'erbuithen'd heart grows troubled by 
 
 your power, [hour. 
 
 And ye seem to press the long psist years into one little 
 
 If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no 
 more — 
 
 A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the moun- 
 tain shore, [ing sky, — 
 
 A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson even- 
 
 Ye bring me back those images fast as ye wander by. 
 
 If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have 
 
 heard, 
 And into childhood's memorjlink'd the music of a bird; 
 A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's 
 
 train, — 
 Ye give me that wild melody of early life again. 
 
 Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is changed, or 
 
 gone, 
 Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone, 
 I find that murmur in your notes — they touch the 
 
 chords of thought, 
 And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is 
 
 brouslu.
 
 A STUAIN or MUSIC. 23 
 
 If 1 have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground 
 To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love 
 
 was bound : 
 If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came 
 
 not back, 
 The feeling of that momeflt wakes in your exulting 
 
 track. 
 
 Yet on ye float! — the very air seems kindling with 
 
 your glee ! 
 Oh ! do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds ! 
 
 alone on me ? 
 Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine dotli now, 
 
 in sigiis. 
 To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies ? 
 
 I know not! — only this I know, that not by me on 
 earth, 
 
 May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its 
 birth ; 
 
 It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal 
 s|)here. 
 
 Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter foun- 
 tains here. 
 
 A IlKALTII. 
 
 UY LDWA UU t. I'lNKNEY. 
 
 I 1 ILL this cup to ono made up of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex the secinini: paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements and kindly stars have 
 
 given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than 
 
 heaven.
 
 ■24 A HEALTH. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning 
 
 birds, 
 And sometliing more than melody dwells ever in her 
 
 words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips 
 
 each flows 
 As one may see the burthen'd bee forth issue from the 
 
 rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her 
 
 hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of 
 
 young flowers ; 
 And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she 
 
 appears 
 The image of themselves by turns — the idol of past 
 
 years. 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on 
 
 the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long 
 
 remain ; 
 But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, 
 When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, 
 
 but hers. 
 
 1 fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon — 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood some 
 
 more of such a frame, 
 That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
 
 25 
 
 THE SERENADE, 
 
 Softly the moonlight 
 
 Is shed on the lake, 
 Cool is the summer night — 
 
 Wake ! O awake ! 
 Faintly the curfew 
 
 Is heard from afar, 
 List ye ! O list ! 
 
 To the lively guitar. 
 
 Trees cast a mellow shade 
 
 Over the vale. 
 Sweetly the serenade 
 
 Breathes in the gale, 
 Softiy and tenderly 
 
 Over the lake, 
 Gaily and cheerily — 
 
 Wake! O awake! 
 
 See the light pinnace 
 
 Draws nigli to the shore, 
 Swiftly it glides 
 
 At the heave of the oar, 
 Cheerily plays 
 
 On its buoyant car, 
 Nearer and nearer 
 
 The lively guitar. 
 
 Now the wind rises 
 And ruffles the i)inc, 
 
 Ripples foam-crested 
 Like diamon<ls shine, 
 
 LYRE. C
 
 26 THE SERENADE. 
 
 They flash, where the waters 
 The white pebbles lave, 
 
 In the wake of the moon. 
 As it crosses the wave. 
 
 Bounding from billow 
 
 To billow, the boat 
 Like a wild swan is seen, 
 
 On the waters to float ; 
 And the light dipping oars 
 
 Bear it smoothly along 
 In time to the air 
 
 Of the Gondolier's song. 
 
 And high on the stem 
 
 Stands the young and the brave. 
 As love-led he crosses 
 
 The star-spangled wave, 
 And blends with the murmur 
 
 Of water and grove 
 The tones of the night, 
 
 That are sacred to love. 
 
 His gold-hilted sword 
 
 At his bright belt is hung, 
 His mantle of silk 
 
 On his shoulder is flung, 
 And high waves the feather, 
 
 That dances and plays 
 On his cap uliere the buckle 
 
 And rosary blaze. 
 
 The maid from her lattice 
 Looks dowm on the lake, 
 
 To see the foam sparkle. 
 The bright billow break,
 
 THE SERENADE. 27 
 
 And to hear in his boat, 
 
 Where he sliines like a star, 
 Her lover so tenderly 
 
 Touch his guitar. 
 
 She opens her lattice, 
 
 And sits in the glow 
 Of the moonlight and starlight, 
 
 A statue of snow ; 
 And she sings in a voice, 
 
 That is broken with sighs, 
 As she darts on her lover 
 
 The light of her eyes. 
 
 His love-speaking pantomime 
 
 Tells her his soul — 
 How wild in that sunny clime 
 
 Hearts and eyes roll. 
 She waves with her white hand 
 
 Her white fazzolet. 
 And her burning thoughts flash 
 
 From her eye's living jet. 
 
 The moonlight is hid 
 
 In a vapour of snow ; 
 Her voice and his rebeck 
 
 Alternately flow ; 
 Reechoed they swell 
 
 From the rock on the lull; 
 They sing their farewell, 
 
 And the music is still.
 
 28 
 
 ON SOME SKULLS IN BEAULEY ABBEY 
 
 NEAR INVERNESS. 
 
 In silent barren synod met 
 
 Within these roofless walls, where yet 
 
 The sever'd arch and carved fret 
 
 Cling to the ruin, 
 The brethren's skulls mourn, dewy wet, 
 
 Their creed's undoing. 
 
 The mitred ones of Nice and Trent 
 Were not so tonguetied ; no, they went 
 Hot to their councils, scarce content 
 
 With orthodoxy ; 
 But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant 
 
 To speak by proxy. 
 
 Your chronicles no more exist, 
 For Knox, the revolutionist, 
 Destroy'd the work of every fist 
 
 That scrawl'd black letter ; 
 Well ! I'm a craniologist, 
 
 And may do better. 
 
 This skull-cap wore the cowl from sloth, 
 Or discontent, perhaps from both; 
 And yet one day, against his oath. 
 
 He tried escaping ; 
 For men, though idle, may be loath 
 
 To live on gaping. 
 
 A toper this ! he plied his glass 
 ]More strictly than he said the mass, 
 And loved to see a tempting lass 
 
 Come to confession, 
 Letting her absolution pass 
 
 O'er fresh transgression.
 
 ox SOME SKULLS IN BEAULEY ABBEY. 29 
 
 This crawl'd through life in feebleness, 
 
 Boasting he never knew excess, 
 
 Cursing those crimes he scarce could guess, 
 
 Or feel but faintly, 
 Willi prayers that Heaven would cease to bless 
 
 Men so unsaintly. 
 
 Here's a true churchman ! — he'd affect 
 Much charity, and ne'er neglect 
 To pray for mercy on the' elect, 
 
 But thought no evil 
 In sending heathen, Turk, and sect 
 
 All to the devil. 
 
 Poor skull, thy fingers set a-blaze, 
 With silver saint in golden rays. 
 The holy missal ; thou didst craze 
 
 'Mid bead and spangle, 
 \\ hile otiiers pass'd their idler days, 
 
 Jn coil and wrangle. 
 
 Long time this sconce a helmet wore, — 
 But sickness smites the conscience sore ; 
 He broke his sword, and hither bore 
 
 His gear and plunder, 
 Took to the cowl, — then raved and swore 
 
 At his damn'd blunder! 
 
 This lily-colour'd skull, with all 
 
 The teeth complete, so white ami small, 
 
 Belong'd to one whose early pall 
 
 A lover shaded ; 
 He died ere superstition's gall 
 
 His heart invaded. 
 
 Ha ! here is * undivulged crime !' 
 Despair forbade his soul to climb
 
 30 ox SOME SKULLS IX BEATLEY ABBEY. 
 
 Beyond this world, this mortal time 
 
 Of fever'd sadness, 
 
 Until their monkish pantomime 
 
 Dazzled his madness. 
 
 A younger brother this, — a man 
 
 Aspiring as a Tartar Khan, 
 
 But, curb'd and baffled, he began 
 
 The trade of frightening ; 
 It smack'd of power ! — and here he ran 
 
 To deal Heaven's lightning. 
 
 This idiot skull belong'd to one, 
 A buried miser's only son. 
 Who penitent, ere he'd begun 
 
 To taste of pleasure, 
 And hoping Heaven's dread wrath to shun, 
 
 Gave hell his treasure. 
 
 Here is the forehead of an ape, 
 
 A robber's mark, — and near the nape 
 
 That bone, tie on't ! bears just the shape 
 
 Of carnal passion ; 
 Ah ! he was one for theft and rape, 
 
 In monkish fashion. 
 
 This was the porter ! he could sing, 
 Or dance, or play, — do any thing. 
 And what the friars bade him bring 
 
 They ne'er were balk'd of, 
 jNIatters not worth remembering, 
 
 And seldom talk'd of. 
 
 Enough ! why need I farther pore ? 
 This corner holds at least a score, 
 And yonder twice as many more 
 
 Of reverend brothers ; 
 'Tis the same story o'er and o'er, — 
 , They're like the others.
 
 •iL 
 
 A SKETCH FROM HEAL LIFE*. 
 
 BV ALARIC A. WATTS, 
 
 What now to her is all the world esteems? 
 
 She i« awake, and cares not for its dreams ; 
 
 But moves, while yet on earth, as one above 
 
 It.' hopes aud fears— its loathing and its love,— CRABBf- 
 
 *Tis said she once was beautiful ; — and slill 
 
 (For 'tis not years that can liave wrought lier ill) 
 
 Deep rays of loveliness around her form 
 
 Beam, as the rainbow that succeeds the storm 
 
 Brightens a glorious ruin. In her face, 
 
 Though something touch'd by sorrow, you may trace 
 
 The all she was, when first in life's young spring, 
 
 Like the gay bee-bird on delighted wing, 
 
 She stoop'd to cull the honey from each flower 
 
 That bares its breast in joy's luxuriant bower ! 
 
 O'er her pure forehead, pale as moonlit snow. 
 
 Her ebon locks are parted ; — and her l^row 
 
 Stands forth like morning from the shades of night, 
 
 Serene, though clouds hang over it. The bright 
 
 And searching glance of her Ilhuriel eye. 
 
 Might even the sternest hypocrite defy 
 
 To meet it unappall'd ; — twould almost seem, 
 
 As though, cpitomizetl in one deep beam. 
 
 Her full collected soul uj)on the heart, 
 
 Whale'er its mask, she strove at once to dart : 
 
 And few may brave the talisman that's hid 
 
 'Neath tite dark fringes of her drooping lid. 
 
 Patient in suffering, she has learn'd the art 
 To bleed in silence and conceal the smart, 
 
 • From a volume of poems printed for private tirciil.iih.ii.
 
 32 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 And thence, though quick of feeling, hath been deem'd 
 
 Almost as cold and loveless as she seem'd ; 
 
 Because to fools she never would reveal 
 
 Wounds they would probe — without the power to heal . 
 
 No, — whatsoe'er the visions that disturb 
 
 The fountain of her thoughts, she knows to curb 
 
 Each outward sign of sorrow, and suppress — 
 
 Even to a sigh — all tokens of distress. 
 
 Yet some, perhaps, with keener vision than 
 
 The crowd, that pass her by unnoted, can, 
 
 Through well dissembled smiles, at times, discern 
 
 A settled anguish that would seem to burn 
 
 The very brain it feeds upon ; and when 
 
 This mood of pain is on her, then, oh ! then,. 
 
 A more than wonted paleness of the cheek, — 
 
 And, it may be, a flitting hectic streak, — 
 
 A tremulous motion of the lip or eye, — 
 
 Are all that anxious friendship may descrj'. 
 
 Reserve and womanly pride are in her look. 
 Though temper'd into meekness ; she can brook 
 Cnkinduess and neglect from those she loves. 
 Because she feels it undeserved ; which proves 
 That firm and conscious rectitude hath power 
 To blunt Fate's darts in sorrow's darkest hour. 
 Ay, unprovoked, injustice she can bear 
 Without a sigh — almost without a tear. 
 Save such as hearts internally will weep,. 
 And they ne*er rise the burning lids to steep ; 
 But to those petty wrongs which half defy 
 Human forbearance, she can make reply 
 With a proud lip, and a contemptuous eye. 
 
 There is a speaking sadness in her air, 
 A tinge of languor o'er her features fair. 
 Born of no common grief;, as though despair 
 Had wrestled with her spirit — been o'erthrown, — 
 And these the trophies of the strife alone.
 
 A SKLTCH 1 ROM UIAL LIFE. 33 
 
 A resignation of the will, a calm 
 Derived from pure religion (that sweet balm 
 For wounded breasts) is seated on her brow, 
 And ever to the tempest bends she now, 
 Even as a drooping lily, which the wind 
 Sways as it lists. The sweet affections bind 
 Her sympathies to earth ; her peaceful soul 
 Has long aspired to that immortal goal, 
 \Vhere pain and anguisii cease to be our lot, 
 And the world's cares and frailties are forgot ! 
 
 THE SICILIAN VESPERS. 
 
 BY J. G. WIIITTIER. 
 
 Silence o'er sea and earth 
 
 With the veil of evening fell, 
 Till the convent tower sent deeply forth 
 
 The chime of its vesper bell. 
 One momeiU, and that solemn sound 
 
 Fell heavily on the ear; 
 But a sterner echo pass'd around ; 
 
 Which the boldest shook to hear. 
 
 The startled monks throng'd up. 
 
 In the torchlight cold and dim ; 
 And the priest let fall his incense cup, 
 
 And the virgin hush'd her hymn ; 
 For a lx»ding clash, and a clanging tramp, 
 
 And a simimoning voice were heard, 
 And fretted wall, and tf)mbstone damp, 
 
 To the fearful echo stirr'd. 
 
 The peasant heard the smmd, 
 
 As he sat beside his hearth ; 
 And the song and the dance were hush'd aroun 
 
 With the fireside tale of mirth. 
 
 c2
 
 34 THE SICILIAN VESPERS. 
 
 The chieftain shook in his banner'd hall. 
 As the sound of war drew nigh ; 
 
 And the warder shrank from the castle wall, 
 As the gleam of spears went by. 
 
 Woe, woe, to the stranger then ; 
 
 At the feast and flow of wine, 
 In the red array of mailed men. 
 
 Or bow'd at the holy shrine ; 
 For the waken'd pride of an injured land 
 
 Had burst its iron thrall; 
 From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band ; 
 
 Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul ! 
 
 Proud beings fell that hour, 
 
 With the young and passing fair, 
 And the flame went up from dome and tower ; 
 
 The avenger's arm was there ! 
 The stranger priest at the altar stood, 
 
 And clasp'd his beads in prayer. 
 But the holy shrine grew dim with blood ; 
 
 The avenger found him there ! 
 
 Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul ; 
 
 To the serf and mailed lord ; 
 They were gather'd darkly, one and all. 
 
 To the harvest of the sword ; 
 And the morning sun, with a quiet smile. 
 
 Shone out o'er hill and glen, 
 On ruin'd temple and mouldering pile. 
 
 And the ghastly forms of men. 
 
 Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled, 
 
 As its early glance came forth ; 
 It had no sympathy with the wild 
 
 And terrible things of earth ; 
 And the man of blood that day might read. 
 
 In a language freely given. 
 How ill his dark and midnight deed 
 
 Became the light of heaven.
 
 36 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 BY THOMAS UOOD. 
 
 Oh when I was a tiny boy 
 
 My days and nights were full of joy, 
 
 My mates were blithe and kind ! 
 No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
 And dash the tear-drop from ray eye, 
 
 To cast a look behind ! 
 
 A hoop was an eternal round 
 
 i){ pleasure. In those days I found 
 
 A top a joyous thing ; — 
 But now tiiose past delights I drop, 
 My head, alas! is all my top. 
 
 And careful thoughts the string ! 
 
 My marbles — once my bag was stored — 
 Now I mast play with Elgin's lord. 
 
 With Theseus for a taw ! 
 My playful horse has slipp'd his string. 
 Forgotten all his capering. 
 
 And harness'd to the law ! 
 
 My kite — how fast and far it flew! 
 \\'liilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 
 
 My pleasure from the sky ! 
 'Twas paj)er'd o'er with studious themes, 
 The tasks I wrote — my present dreams 
 
 Will never soar so high. 
 
 My joys are wingless all and dead ; 
 My dumps are n)ade of more than lead ; 
 
 My tliijhts soon find a fall : 
 ^ly fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
 Joy never cometh with a whoop, 
 
 And seldom with a call !
 
 36 A ROTROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 My football's laid upon the shelf; — 
 I am a shuttlecock myself^ 
 
 The world knocks to and fro — 
 My archery is all unleam'd. 
 And grief against myself has tum'd 
 
 My arrows and my bow ! 
 
 No more in noontide sun I bask ; 
 My authorship's an endless task. 
 
 My head's ne'er out of school. — 
 My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, 
 I have too many foes to fight. 
 
 And friends grown strangely cool ! 
 
 The ver}' chum that shared my cake 
 Holds out so cold a hand to shake 
 
 It makes me shrink and sigh- 
 On this I w^ill not dwell and hang. 
 The changeling would not feel a pang 
 
 Though these should meet his eye ! 
 
 No skies so blue, or so serene 
 
 As then ; — no leaves look half so green 
 
 As clothed the play ground tree 1 
 All things I loved are alter'd so. 
 Nor does it ease my heart to know 
 
 That change resides in me ! 
 
 Oh, for the garb that marked the boy — 
 
 The trow'Sers made of corduroy, 
 
 Well ink'd with black and red ; — 
 The crownless hat — ne'er deem'd an ill- 
 It only let the sunshine still 
 Repose upon my head ! 
 
 Oh, for the riband round the neck ! 
 The careless dog's e^rs apt to deck
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 37 
 
 My book and collar both ! 
 How can this formal man be styled 
 ^Merely an Alexandrine child, 
 
 A boy of larger growth ? 
 
 Oh, for that small, small beer anew ! 
 
 And (heaven's own type) that mild sky blue 
 
 That wash'd my sweet meals down ; 
 The master even ! — and that small Turk 
 That fa;Tg'(i me ! — worse is now my work : 
 
 A fag for all the town ! 
 
 Oh, for the lessons learn 'd by heart! 
 Ay, though the very birch's smart 
 
 Should mark those hours again ; 
 I'd " kiss the rod," and be resi^n'd 
 Beneath the stroke — and even tind 
 
 Some sugar in the cane ! 
 
 The' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed ! 
 The Fairy Tales in schooltime read, 
 
 By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! — 
 Tlie angel form that always walk'd 
 In all my dreams, and look'd and lalk'd 
 
 Exactly like Miss Brown ! 
 
 The " omne bene" — Christmas come! 
 The prize of merit won for home — 
 
 Merit had prizes then ? 
 But now I write for days and days — 
 For fame — a deal of empty praise, 
 
 Without the silver pen ! 
 
 Then home, sweet home! — the crow(le<l coach — 
 The joyous shout — the loud apjtroach — 
 
 The winding horns like rams' ! 
 The meeting sweet that made me thrill — 
 The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, 
 
 No "satis" to the "jams I"
 
 38 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 When that I was a tiny boy, 
 
 My days and nights were full of joy, 
 
 My mates were blithe and kind — 
 No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
 And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 
 
 To cast a look behind ! 
 
 TO THE OWL. 
 
 The toUowing lines were written in reference to the murder of 
 Mr. Weare, a few years ago. 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the boding sky ! 
 
 In the murky air, — 
 
 What saw'st thou there ? — 
 For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry ! 
 
 " The maple's head 
 
 Was glowing red, 
 And red were the wings of the autumn sky ; 
 
 But a redder gleam 
 
 Rose from the stream 
 That dabbled my feet, as I glided by ! " 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the stormy sky ! 
 
 Speak, oh! speak! — 
 
 What crimson'd thy beak, 
 And hung on the lids of thy staring eye ? 
 
 '' 'Twas blood, 'twas blood ! 
 
 And it rose like a flood, — 
 And for this I screara'd as I glided by!" 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the midnight sky ! 
 Again, again, 
 Where are the twain ?
 
 TO THE OWL. 39 
 
 Look ! while the moon is Imrrying by ! — 
 
 " In the thicket's shade 
 
 The one is laid ; — 
 You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye !" 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the darken'd sky ! 
 
 A step beyond 
 
 From the silent pond 
 There rose a low and a murmuring cry : — 
 
 '* On the water's edge, 
 
 Through the trampled sedge, 
 A bubble burst, and gurgled by ; 
 
 My eyes were dim, 
 
 But I look'd from the brim, 
 And I saw, in the weeds, a dead man lie 1" 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the moonless sky ! 
 
 Where the casements blaze 
 
 With the faggot's rays, 
 Look ! oh, look ! what seest thou there ? 
 
 Owl ! what's this, 
 
 That snort and hiss, 
 And why do thy feathers shiver and stare ? — 
 
 " 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 
 
 lie sits 'mid the three, 
 And a breathless woman is on the stair!" 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the cloudy sky ? 
 
 Where clank the chains 
 
 Through the prison panes, 
 What there thou hearest tell to me? — 
 
 " In her midnight dream, 
 
 'Tis a woman's scream, 
 And she calls on one — on one of the Three t" 
 
 Look in once more. 
 
 Through the grated door : — 
 " 'Tis a soul that prays in agony I"
 
 40 TO THE OWL. 
 
 Owl ! that hatest the morning sky ! 
 
 On thy pinions gray, 
 
 Away, — away ! — 
 I must pray, in charity. 
 
 From midnight chime, 
 
 To morning prime, 
 ^[isererr, Domine ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. 
 
 BY L. E. L, 
 
 His was a harp just fit to pour 
 
 Its music to the wind and wave ; 
 He had a right to tell their fame 
 
 Who stood himself amid the brave. 
 
 The first time that I read his strain 
 
 There was a tempest in the sky. 
 And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash, 
 
 Were like dark ships and battle cry. 
 
 I had forgot my woman's fears, 
 
 In thinking on my country's fame, 
 Till almost I could dream I saw 
 
 Her colours float o'er blood and flame. 
 
 Died the high song as dies the voice 
 Of the proud trumpet on the wind ; 
 
 And died the tempest too, and left 
 A gentle twilight hour behind. 
 
 Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes, 
 Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal, 
 
 Telling of hopes and feelings past. 
 Like stars that darken'd in their fall.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZAUAM, 41 
 
 Hopes perishing from too much light, 
 
 ' Exhausted by their own excess;' 
 Affections tnisted, till tliey turn'd. 
 
 Like Marah's wave, to bitterness. 
 
 And is this, then, the curse that clings 
 To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling? 
 
 Is this the cloud that destiny 
 
 Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing ? 
 
 It is — it is ! tread on thy way, 
 
 Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold ; 
 
 Look not up from the sullen path 
 
 That lead's to this world's idol — gold. 
 
 And close thy hand, and close thy heart, 
 
 And be thy very soul of clay, 
 And thou wilt be the thing the crowd 
 
 \\ ill worship, cringe to, and obey. 
 
 But look thou upon Nature's face. 
 
 As the young poet loves to look ; 
 And lean thou where the willow leans, 
 
 O'er the low murmur of the brook. 
 
 Or worship thou the midnight sky, 
 
 In silence at its moonlit hour; 
 Or let a single tear confess 
 
 The silent spell of music's power. 
 
 (Jr love, or feel, or let thy soul 
 
 Be for one moment pure or free, 
 Then shrink away at once from life, — 
 
 Its path will bo no path for thee. 
 
 Pour forth thy fervid soul in song — 
 
 There are some that may praise thy lays; 
 
 But of all earth's dim vanities. 
 The very earthliest is praise.
 
 42 ox THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. 
 
 Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves 
 Around the Poet's temples hung, 
 
 How turn'd to gall, and how profaned 
 By envious or by idle tongue ! 
 
 Given by vapid fools, who laud 
 
 Only if others do the same ; 
 Forgotten even while the breath 
 
 Is on the air that bears your name. 
 
 And he ! what was his fate, the bard. 
 He of the Desert Harp, whose song 
 
 Flow'd freely, wildly, as the wind 
 That bore him and his harp along ? 
 
 That fate which waits the gifted one, 
 To pine, each finer impulse check'd ; 
 
 At length to sink, and die beneath 
 The shade and silence of neglect. 
 
 And this the polish'd age, that springs 
 The phoenix from dark years gone by, 
 
 That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves 
 Her warrior and her bard to die. 
 
 To die in poverty and pride, 
 
 The light of hope and genius past, 
 
 Each feeling wrung, until the heart 
 Could bear no more, so broke at last. 
 
 Thus withering amid the wreck 
 Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, 
 
 \Vhat can the Minstrel do, but die. 
 Cursing his too beloved strings !
 
 43 
 
 I THINK OF THEE. 
 
 EV T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 I THINK of thee, in the night 
 
 \N'hen all beside is still, 
 And the moon conies out, witii her pale sad light, 
 
 To sit on the lonely hill : — 
 When the stars are all like dreams. 
 
 And the breezes all like sighs, 
 And there comes a voice from far off streams, 
 
 Like thy spirit's low replies ! 
 
 I think of thee by day, 
 
 Mid the cold and busy crowd, 
 When the laughter of the young and gay 
 
 Is far too glad and loud ; 
 I hear thy low sad tone. 
 
 And thy sweet young smile I see, 
 — My heart — my heart were all alone. 
 
 But for its dreams of thee ! 
 
 Of thee, who wert so dear. 
 
 And, yet, I do not weep ; 
 For thine eyes were stain'd by many a tear 
 
 Before they went to sleep ; 
 And, if I haunt the past, 
 
 Yet may I not repine, 
 Tliat thou hast won thy rest at last. 
 
 And all the grief is mine. 
 
 I think upon thy gain, 
 
 Whate er to me it cost, 
 And fancy dwells, with less of pain. 
 
 On all that I have lost ; 
 Hope — like llie cuckoo's endless talc, 
 
 — Alas! it wears her wing ! — 
 And love, that — like the nightingale — 
 
 Sings only in the spring!
 
 44 I THINK OF THEE. 
 
 Thou art my spirit's all, 
 
 Just as thou wert in youth ; 
 Still from thy grave no shadows fall 
 
 Upon my lonely truth ; — 
 A taper yet above thy tomb, 
 
 Since lost its sweeter rays, 
 And what is memory through the gloom, 
 
 Was hope in brighter days ! 
 
 'I- am pining for the home 
 
 Where sorrow sinks to sleep. 
 Where the weary and the vyeepers come, 
 
 And they cease to toil and weep ! 
 Why walk about with smiles, 
 
 That each should be a tear, 
 \'ain a.s the summer's glowing spoils, 
 
 Above an early bier. 
 
 Oh like those fairy things, — 
 
 Those insects of the east. 
 Which have their beauty in their wings, 
 
 And shroud it while they rest ; 
 Which fold their colours of the sky 
 
 When earthward they alight. 
 And flash their splendors on the eye. 
 
 Only to take their flight; — 
 
 I never knew how dear thou wert, 
 
 Till thou wert borne away ! 
 I have it, yet, about my heart. 
 
 Thy beauty of that day ; 
 As if the robe thou wert to wear. 
 
 In other climes, were given, 
 That I might learn to know it there. 
 
 And seek thee out, in heaven !
 
 46 
 
 EXCUSE 
 
 roR NOT FULFILLING AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 BV LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 
 
 My friend, I gave a glad assent 
 
 To your request at noon, 
 But now I tind I cannot leave 
 
 My little ones so soon. 
 Early I came, and as my feet 
 
 First enter'd at the door, 
 " Uemember," to myself I said, 
 
 *' You must dismiss at four." 
 But slates, and books, and maps appear, 
 
 And many a dear one cries, 
 " Oh tell us where that river runs, 
 
 And where these mountains rise, 
 And where that blind old monarch reign'd, 
 
 And who was king before, 
 And stay a little after five, 
 
 And tell us something more." 
 And then my little Alice comes, 
 
 And who unmoved can view 
 The tilance of that imploring eye, 
 
 " I*ray, teach ?//<■ something too." 
 Yet who would think amid the toil 
 
 CThough scarce a toil it be). 
 That through the door the nnises coy 
 
 SliouUl deign to peep at me. 
 Each brow is somewhat cold and stern, 
 
 As if it fain would say, 
 " We did not know you kept a school, 
 
 We must have lost our way." 
 Their visit was but short indeed, 
 
 As these slight numbers siiow, 
 But ah I they bade me write with speed. 
 
 My friend, I cannot go.
 
 46 
 
 FORGET THEE ? 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 
 " Forget thee?" — If to dream by night, and muse on 
 
 thee by day ; 
 If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, 
 If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's 
 
 protecting power, [hour, 
 
 If winged thoughts that flit to thee — a thousand in an 
 If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, 
 If this thou call'st " forgetting," thou, indeed, shah 
 
 be forgot ! 
 
 " Forget thee?" — Bid the forest birds forget their 
 sweetest tune ! 
 
 " Forget thee?" — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath 
 the moon ; 
 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re- 
 freshing dew ; 
 
 Thyself forget thine " own dear land," and its " moun- 
 tains wild and blue ;" 
 
 Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd 
 spot : 
 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shah 
 be forgot ! 
 
 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and 
 
 fancy-free ; 
 For, God forbid ! thy gladsome heart should grow less 
 
 glad for me ; 
 Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine 
 
 to rove, [love ; 
 
 But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining 
 If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, 
 Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst 
 
 be forgot !
 
 47 
 
 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 
 
 UY PROI ES!>;OR WILSON. 
 
 MAGNiricENT creature ! so stately and bright! 
 In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight; 
 For wlial hath the child of the desert to dread, 
 Wafting up his own mountains tliat far beaming head ; 
 Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ! — 
 Hail ! king of the wild and the beautiful ! — hail ! 
 Hail ! idol divine! — whom nature hatii borne 
 (J'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn, 
 Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and 
 
 moor. 
 As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore ; 
 For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free. 
 Are S[)read in a garment of glory o'er thee, 
 Up ! up to yon clifl ! like a king to his throne ! 
 O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — 
 A throne which the eagle is glad to resign 
 Into footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 
 There the brightheathersprings uj) in loveof thy breast, 
 Lo ! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest ; 
 Aud the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill ! 
 In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still! — 
 Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight 
 Like the arms of the pine on yon sliclterless height, 
 One moment — thou l)right apparition — delay ! 
 Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. 
 
 His voyage is o'er — As if struck by a spell. 
 He motionless stands in the hush of the dell ; 
 There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast, 
 In the midst of his ])astini(' eiuunour'd of rest. 
 A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race — 
 A dancing ray chain'd to one sunshiny place —
 
 48 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 
 
 A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven — 
 A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven. 
 
 Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee : 
 Magnificent prison enclosing the free ; 
 With rock wall-encircled — with precipice crown'd — 
 Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 
 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep 
 One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep; 
 And close to that covert, as clear to the skies 
 When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, 
 Where the creature at rest can his image behold, 
 Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold . 
 
 Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose — 
 In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, 
 Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar. 
 With a haughty defiance to come to the war. 
 No outrage is war to a creature like thee ; 
 The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 
 As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind. 
 And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 
 In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with dead). 
 In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath, — 
 In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar, — 
 In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more, — 
 Thy trust — 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign : 
 — But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? 
 On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, 
 Like a victor that falls at the close of the day — 
 While the hunter and hound in their terror retreat 
 From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet; — 
 And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, 
 As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.
 
 49 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 BY C. F. HOUSEMAN. 
 
 The brook is purling on its way, 
 
 Amid a thousand Rowers ; 
 It seems not night, but paler day, 
 
 So clear the moonlight hours : 
 And many a light step treads the green. 
 
 And music now begins — 
 The tinkling of the light guitar. 
 
 The sound of mandolins ! 
 
 Come forth, my love, and I will weave 
 
 A garland for thy brow ; 
 The brightest roses, kiss'd by eve, 
 
 Are shining brighter now ! 
 Tiie moonlight loses half its charms, 
 
 However bright, for me. 
 If 'tis not shared with thee, my love, — 
 
 If 'tis not shared with thee ! 
 
 'TIS HOME WHERE'ER TIIK liKAUT IS. 
 
 "Tis home where'er the heart is; 
 
 Where'er it's loved ones dwell, 
 In cities or in cottages, 
 
 Throng'd haunts or mossy dell : 
 The heart's a rover ever, 
 
 And thus on wave and wild, 
 The maiden with her lover walkx, 
 
 The mother with her child. 
 
 1,>RE. D
 
 50 'tis home where'er the heart is. 
 
 'Tis bright where'er the heart is; 
 
 Its fairy spells can bring 
 Tresh fountains to the wilderness, 
 
 And to the desert — spring. 
 There are green isles in each ocean, 
 
 O'er which affection glides; 
 And a haven on each rugged shore, 
 
 When love's the star that guides. 
 
 'Tis free where'er the heart is ; 
 
 Nor chain nor dungeon dim. 
 May check the mind's aspirings, 
 
 The spirit's pealing hymn ! 
 The heart gives life its beauty, 
 
 Its glory and its power, — 
 'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream. 
 
 And soft dew to its flower. 
 
 THE LUTE. 
 
 BY THE REV. G. CROLY, 
 
 I have seen the scymetar in the Sahib's hand, and the sceptro 
 in the Rajah's; I have seen the one rusted, and the other broken. 
 And I have seen the lute ring over the graves of the Sahib and the 
 Kajah. Let me then take the lute, and with it win thee. 
 
 Bengalee Poem. 
 
 The masters of the earth have died, 
 Their kingly strength is dust and air ! 
 
 Within their breasts of fire and pride, 
 The worm has made his quiet lair. 
 
 I feel the world is vanity. 
 
 And take my lute and sing to thee.
 
 THE LUTE. 51 
 
 I saw tlie Rajah arm'd for war; 
 
 I saw his chieftains trampling round ; 
 I saw his banner like a star; 
 
 I heard his trumpet's stormy sound : 
 On rush'd they, like the rising sea — 
 I took my lute, and sang to thee. 
 
 The eve was on the mountain's brow : 
 
 I heard the echo of despair; 
 I saw the host returning slow — 
 
 Tlie Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare ; 
 I saw his gore, and wept to see : — 
 That eve I touch'd no lute to thee. 
 
 My steps were once in lordly halls. 
 
 My brow once wore the diadem, 
 A thousand barbs were in my stalls, 
 
 Upon my baimer blazed the gem : — 
 All tied like dreams, so let them flee — 
 I take my lute, and sing to thee. 
 
 What's life ? — at best a wandering breath ; 
 
 When saddest, but a passing sigh ; 
 When happiest, but a summer wreath — 
 
 A sigh of roses floating by. 
 Soon, soon alike tiie bond and free — 
 So sings my lute, and sings to thee. 
 
 Then come, Sherene ! I've found a grove, 
 
 Beneath a wild hill's purple van, 
 Where coos the silver-bosom'd dove ; 
 
 Where the wild peacock spreads his fan ; 
 Where springs the roebuck in his glee : 
 -I^ve, hear my lute, it sings to thee. 
 
 There, on the valley's blossom'd slope. 
 Shines to the sun the pheasant's plume. 
 
 There, like a ray, the antelope 
 
 Gleams through Uie thicket's fragrant gloom .
 
 52 THE LUTE. 
 
 The stately camel bends the knee : — 
 Love, hear my lute — " 'Tis all for thee." 
 
 There morn is like a new-waked rose, 
 And like a rosy shower the noon ; 
 
 And evening, like a sweet song's close ; 
 And like a sun half veiled, the moon. 
 
 But dark my Paradise will be : — 
 
 Soul of my soul, I die for thee. 
 
 THERE MAY BE PLEASURE IN TUK 
 SOUND. 
 
 There may be pleasure in the sound 
 Of trumpets in the battle wailing. 
 
 And joy to hear the vessel bound 
 Along the summer billows sailing ; 
 
 But never sound so sweet can be 
 
 As voice of female melody ! 
 
 There may be joy to list the chime 
 
 Of horn and hound, 'mid green hills ringing, 
 And, in the Spring's calm evening time. 
 
 To hear the thrush and blackbird singing ; 
 But never sound so sweet can be 
 As voice of female melody ! 
 
 But sweet though be that silvery voice 
 In hours of pleasure or of sorrow, 
 
 Its tones best bid the heart rejoice. 
 
 When soft affection's words they borrow. 
 
 Oh ! then what sounds so sweet can be 
 
 As voice of female melody ?
 
 53 
 
 A DRINKING SONG. 
 
 BY LORD nVROX. 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
 
 Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ; 
 
 Let us drink? — Who would not? since through life's 
 
 varied round 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I iiave tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
 1 have loved ! — Who has not ? — but what tongue will 
 
 declare, 
 That pleasure existed whilst passion was there ! 
 
 In the days of my youth — when the heart's in its 
 
 spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, — 
 I had friends ! — Wlio has not ? — but what tongue will 
 
 avow 
 That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou ! 
 
 The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange ; 
 Friendsiiip shifts with the sunbeam ; — thou never 
 
 canst change ; 
 Thou growcst old! — Who does not? — but on earth 
 
 what appears. 
 Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years. 
 
 Yot if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below ; 
 
 NN e are jealous! — Who's not? — thou hast no such 
 
 alloy. 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy.
 
 •54 A DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Then the season of Youth and its jollities past, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 There we find — Do we not ? — in the flow of the soul. 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth, 
 And Miserj^'s triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 Hope was left ! — Was she not ? — but the goblet we 
 
 kiss, 
 And care not for hope who are certain of bliss ! 
 
 Long life to the grape, and when summer is flown, 
 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 
 
 We must die ! — Who shall not ? — may our sins be 
 
 forgiven, 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven ! 
 
 TO LORD BYRON*. 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Why hast thou bound around, with silver rim, 
 This once gay peopled palace of the soul ? 
 
 Look on it now ! deserted, bleached, and grim, 
 Is this, thou feverish man, thy festal bowl ? 
 
 Is this the cup wherein thou seek'st the balm, 
 Each brighter chalice to thy lip denies? 
 
 Is this the oblivious bowl whose floods becalm, 
 The worm that will not sleep and never dies ? 
 
 * On reading his ' Stanzas on the Silver Foot of a Skull mounted 
 as a Cup for Wine.'
 
 TO LORD BYRON. 5.5 
 
 N\ oe 10 the lip lo which this cup is held ! 
 
 The lip that's pall'd with every purer draught : 
 For which alone the rifled grave can yield 
 
 A goblet worthy to be deeply quaff 'd. 
 
 Strip, tlien, this glittering mockery from the skull. 
 
 Restore the relic to its tomb again ; 
 And seek a healing balm within the bowl, 
 
 Die blessed bowl that never flow'd in vain ! 
 
 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 
 
 BY CHARLES WEST THOMPSON. 
 
 liiRi) of the heavens ! whose matchless eye 
 
 Alone can front the blaze of day, 
 And, wand'ring through the radiant sky, 
 
 Ne'er from the sunlight turns away ; 
 Whose ample wing was made to rise 
 
 Majestick o'er the loftiest peak, 
 On whose chill tops the winter skies, 
 
 Around thy nest, in tempests speak. 
 What ranger of the w inds can dare, 
 I'roud mountain king ! with thee compare ; 
 Or lift his gau<lier jilumes on high 
 Before thy native majesty, 
 When thou hast ta'en thy scat alone, 
 Tpon thy cloud-encircled throne.' 
 
 liird of the cliffs! thy noble form 
 
 Might well be thought almost divine ; 
 
 BoTu for the thunder and tiie stonn. 
 The mountain and the rock are thine ;
 
 .'iS THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 
 
 And there, where never foot has been, 
 
 Thy eyry is sublimely hung, 
 Where louring skies their wrath begin. 
 
 And loudest lullabies are sung 
 By the fierce spirit of the blast, 
 ^Vhen, his snow^ mantle o'er him cast, 
 He sweeps across the mountain top, 
 With a dark fury nought can stop, 
 And wings his wild unearthly way 
 Far through the clouded realms of day. 
 
 Bird of the sun ! to thee — to thee 
 
 The earliest tints of dawn are known, 
 And 'tis thy proud delight to see 
 
 The monarch mount his gorgeous throne ; 
 Throwing the crimson drapery by. 
 
 That half impedes his glorious way ; 
 And mounting up the radiant sky, 
 
 E'en what he is, — the king of day ! 
 Before the regent of the skies 
 INlen shrink, and veil their dazzled eyes ; 
 But thou, in regal majesty. 
 Hast kingly rank as well as he ; 
 And with a steady, dauntless gaze. 
 Thou meet'st the splendour of his blaze. 
 
 Bird of Colombia! well art thou 
 
 An emblem of our native land ; 
 With unblench'd front and noble brow. 
 
 Among the nations doom'd to stand ; 
 Proud, like her mighty mountain woods ; 
 
 Like her own rivers, wandering free ; 
 And sending forth, from hills and floods. 
 
 The joyous shout of liberty ! 
 Like thee, majestic bird ! like thee. 
 She stands in unbought majesty.
 
 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 
 
 With spreading wing, untired and strong, 
 That dares a soaring far and long, 
 That mounts aloft, nor looks below, 
 And will not quail though tempests blow. 
 
 Tlie admiration of the earth, 
 
 In grand simplicity she stands ; 
 Like thee, the storms beheld her birth, 
 
 And she was nursed by rugged hands ; 
 But, past the fierce and furious war. 
 
 Her rising fame new glory brings, 
 For kings and nobles come from far 
 
 To seek the shelter of her wings. 
 And like thee, rider of the cloud, 
 She mounts the heavens, serene and proud, 
 Great in a pure and noble fame, 
 (Jreat in her spotless champion's name, 
 And destined in her day to be 
 Mighty as Home — more nobly free. 
 
 My native land ! my native land ! 
 
 To whom my thoughts will fondly turn ; 
 For her the warmest hopes expand. 
 
 For her the heart with fears will yearn. 
 Oh ! may she keep her eye, like thee, 
 
 Proud eagle of the rocky wild, 
 Fix'd on the sun of liberty, 
 
 By r.ink, by faction unbeguiled; 
 Remembering still the rugged road 
 Our venerable fathers trod, 
 When they throutjh toil and danger press 'd, 
 To gain their glorious bequest. 
 And from each lip the caution fell 
 To those who follow'd, " Guard it well." 
 
 d2
 
 58 . 
 
 TO THE ! 
 
 AUTHOR OF " POETICAL SKETCHES. • 
 
 BY MISS LANDOX. 
 
 There is a dear and lovely power 
 
 Dwells in the silence of the flower, ; 
 
 When the buds meet the caress 
 
 Of the bee in their loneliness: — 
 
 In the song the green leaves sinsr 
 
 When they waken and wave in spring ; 
 
 In the voice of the April bird — 
 
 The first air music the year hath heard ; 
 
 In the deep and glorious light 
 
 Of the thousand stars at night : 
 
 In the dreaming of the moon, 
 
 Bright in her solitary noon ; 
 
 In the tones of the plaining brook ; 
 
 In the light of a first-love look ; 
 
 In each bright and beautifid thing 
 
 With aught of fine imagining, 
 
 That power is dwelling. Now need I 
 
 Name the bright spell of Poesy .' 
 
 And, graceful Bard, it has breathed on tliee 
 
 A breath of the life, which is melody, 
 
 And given thy lute the touching strain 
 
 Which the heart but hears to echo again ! 
 
 ]Mine is not the hand that flings 
 Living or lasting oflerings : * 
 
 Wear thy laurel — not mine the lay 
 Can either give or take away. 
 Others may praise thy harp, — for me 
 To praise, were only mockery; 
 The tribute I offer is such a one, 
 As the young bird would pour if the sun 
 Or the air were pleasant : thanks, not praise, — 
 Oh, not to laud, but to feel thy lays !
 
 09 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 nV THE REV. C. WOLFE. 
 
 \«»i d drum was heard, — not a funeral note, 
 While his corse to the ramparts we hurried 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried ! 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning. 
 By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, 
 
 But he lay like a warrior takiir^^ his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around iiim. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said. 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 \n<\ wAi bitterly ihouglit of the morrow. 
 
 \N t' tiiought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 
 And snio<jlh'(l down his lonely pillow, 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 
 But nothing he'll reck, if liny let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
 
 60 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock told the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 Of the enemy sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory : 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 
 
 BY THOMAS MACAL'LEY. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 
 
 glories are ! 
 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of 
 
 Navarre ! 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and of 
 
 dance, 
 Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh 
 
 pleasant land of France ! 
 And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of 
 
 the waters. 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning 
 
 daughters. 
 As thou w^ert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 
 
 joy, 
 
 For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought 
 
 thy walls annoy. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 
 
 chance of war. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry of 
 
 Navarre.
 
 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. (U 
 
 ( )h ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn 
 
 of day. 
 We saw tlie army of the League drawn out in lonjf 
 
 array ; 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
 And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish 
 
 spears. 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of 
 
 our land ! 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in 
 
 his hand ; 
 And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's 
 
 empurpled flood, 
 And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his 
 
 blood ; 
 And we cried unto the living God, who mles the fate 
 
 of war. 
 To tight for his own holy name, and Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 Tlie King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest. 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 
 
 gallant crest. 
 He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
 He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern 
 
 and high. 
 Kight graciously he smiled on us, '.is rolled from 
 
 wing to wing, 
 T^own all our line, a deafening shout, * God save our 
 
 Lord the King.' 
 ' An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full wi 11 li. 
 
 may, — 
 lor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, — 
 l^ress where ye see my while plume shine, amidst the 
 
 ranks of war, 
 And be your oriflamme, to-day, the hclintt of 
 
 Navarre.'
 
 62 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 
 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled 
 
 din, 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 
 
 culverin ! 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's 
 
 plain, 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
 
 Almayne. 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 
 
 France, 
 Charge for the golden lilies now, — upon them with 
 
 the lance ! 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears 
 
 in rest, 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 
 
 snow-white crest ; 
 And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a 
 
 guiding star, 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne 
 
 hath turn'd his rein. 
 D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count 
 
 is slain. 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a 
 
 Biscay gale ; 
 The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, 
 
 and cloven mail ; 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along 
 
 our van, 
 ' Remember St. Bartholomew,' was pass'd from man 
 
 to man ; 
 But out spake gentle Henry, ' No Frenchman is my 
 
 foe : 
 Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your 
 
 brethren go.'
 
 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUK, 63 
 
 ( )h ! was tliere ever such a knight, in friendship or 
 
 in war, 
 As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier uf 
 
 Navarre ! 
 
 Ho! maidens of \'ienna! IIo ! matrons of Lucerne ! 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never 
 
 shall return. 
 Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 
 
 spearmen's souls ! 
 Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your 
 
 arms be bright ! 
 Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and 
 
 ward to-night ! 
 I'or our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath 
 
 raised the slave. 
 And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and tliti valour 
 
 of the brave. 
 Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; 
 And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 
 
 UY THOMAS H. HAYI.Y. 
 
 I Nr.vKR was a favourite — 
 
 My mother never smiled 
 On me, with half the tenderness 
 
 That bless'd her fairer child ; 
 I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, 
 
 \Vhile fondled on her knee ; 
 I've turn'd away to hide my tears, — 
 
 There was no kiss for me !
 
 r.4 THE XEGLECTED CHILD. 
 
 And yet I strove to please, with all 
 
 My little store of sense ; 
 I strove to please, and infancy 
 
 Can rarely give offence ; 
 But when my artless efforts met 
 
 A cold, ungentle check, 
 I did not dare to throw myself 
 
 In tears upon her neck. 
 
 How blessed are the beautiful ! 
 
 Love watches o'er their birth ; 
 Oh beauty ! in my nurserj' 
 
 I learn'd to know thy worth ; — 
 For even there, I often felt 
 
 Forsaken and forlorn ; 
 And wish'd — for others wish'd it too — 
 
 I never had been born ! 
 
 Fm sure I was affectionate, — 
 
 But in my sister's face, 
 There was a look of love that claim'd 
 
 A smile or an embrace. 
 But when I raised my lip, to meet 
 
 The pressure children prize, 
 None knew the feelings of my heart, — 
 
 They spoke not in my eyes. 
 
 But oh ! that heart too keenly felt 
 
 The anguish of neglect ; 
 I saw my sister's lovely form 
 
 With gems and roses deck'd ; 
 I did not covet t/iem : but oft. 
 
 When wantonly reproved, 
 I envied her the privilege 
 
 Of being so beloved.
 
 THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 65 
 
 But soon a time of triumph came — 
 
 A time of sorrow too, — 
 For sickness o'er my sister's form 
 
 Her venom'd mantle threw : — 
 The features, once so beautiful, 
 
 Now wore the hue of death ; 
 And former friends shrank fearfully 
 
 From her infectious breath. 
 
 'Twas then, unwearied, day and night, 
 
 I watch'd beside her bed. 
 And fearlessly upon my breast 
 
 I pillow'd her poor head. 
 She lived ! — and loved me for my care ! — 
 
 My grief was at an end ; 
 I was a lonely being once, 
 
 But now I have a friend ! 
 
 WHERE ARE THEY? 
 
 nv JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 Oi'R Fathers! where are they? and where 
 
 The j)rophets? — From this mortal scene, 
 Gone with the dream of things that were, 
 
 As if they ne'er had been. 
 Beyond the wanderings of the morn. 
 
 Beyond the portals of the day, 
 L nto a land whence none return, 
 
 Our Fathers — where are they ? 
 
 The vanish'd comet long deem'd lost. 
 And absent for a thousand years, 
 
 Atrain, amid the starrj' host, 
 From darkness reappears.
 
 66 WHERE ARE THEY ? 
 
 Seas ebb and flow upon the shore, 
 
 Moons wax when they have waned away, 
 
 But they who go to come no more, 
 Our Fathers — where are they ? 
 
 Thou sun that light'st the boundless skies, 
 
 Where are the earth's departed gone ? 
 Ye stars, to your all-seeing eyes 
 
 Is the great secret known ? 
 Ye breathe not of their place of rest, 
 
 But roll in silence on your way, 
 And the lorn echoes of the breast 
 
 Still answer — Where are they ? 
 
 TO MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Thy spirit hath a pure, embalming ray, 
 
 E'en like the sun, with his all-silvering light, 
 
 That sweetly sheds its glory through the day, 
 
 And lends us its reflection still at night — 
 
 Falling on every hill and mountain bright, 
 
 And forest dark, and lone and quiet vale, 
 
 Bringing a thousand beauties to the sight. 
 
 That else had been unseen, or dim and paie ; 
 
 Filling our souls in summer with delight. 
 
 And making winter's snowy robe more dazzling white. 
 
 Thus o'er the world of human feeling, thou 
 Hast shed the glory of thy thrilling song, — 
 Lit up its pinnacles to flash and glow. 
 Like stars, that in the deep blue sky do throng.
 
 TO MRS. IILMANS. «)7 
 
 Till its romantic spots are hallowed so, 
 
 That all of beautiful in woman's love, 
 
 And all that's noble on the hero's brow, 
 
 All that resembles holiness above, 
 
 All that we venerate on earth below, 
 
 Unconscious in thy song to tenfold beauty grow. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers ! how its light doth stream 
 
 And flash in glory o'er that thoughtful band ; 
 
 In the clear brightness of its magic gleam. 
 
 Not dimly seen, those various forms are scann'd. 
 
 With burning thoughts they tread the rock.-bouii<l 
 
 strand. 
 The hoary head, the frank, free face of youth, 
 The dear child clinging to the father's hand, 
 Stern manhood's brow, and woman's eye of truth — 
 A mingled crowd upon that wish'd-for land. 
 Oh! more than Plato's dream, devoutly there they 
 
 stand. 
 
 The lays of many lands — they are thine own — 
 Vet hast thou twined them with such feelings dear 
 To all free hearts, and they have such a tone. 
 Ye may not strike them in the tyrant's ear, 
 Nor can the coward heart their music hear. 
 Some should be sung around the peaceful hearth, 
 For they are loved by all the dwellers there, 
 And 'mid domestic scones had their own birth, 
 Scenes, e'en the wicked in their hearts revere — 
 Some in the battle heard, the freeman's soul might 
 cheer. 
 
 Thou hast a voice, a glad voice for the spring, 
 And harvest hath a sontj of musick (juick. 
 And joyous chords the bridal morning ring; 
 But other notes than these for the sad wreck 
 The faithful boy on that still burning tleck,
 
 68 TO MRS. IIEMANS. 
 
 The last long look to him who was so dear, 
 The settled paleness on the cold dead cheek, 
 The solemn chant, slow peal'd by the sad bier. 
 The reft one's grief, that is too deep to speak 
 Woman's strong love, for which all words but tbme 
 are weak. 
 
 And thou hast thrown o'er all thy blessed songs 
 
 A veil of feminine thought, that still doth greet 
 
 The soul with joy that not to earth belongs, 
 
 A charm from thine own heart, that when we meet 
 
 Thy much loved verse, it tells of tliy retreat ; 
 
 E'en as those shells, thrown by the flowing sea 
 
 In polish'd beauty at our careless feet, 
 
 More exquisitely fair than art can be, 
 
 Far from their native ocean still repeat 
 
 For ever its lo%ed roar, in mimic murmurs sweet. 
 
 THE MINSTER. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Speak low ! — the place is holy to the breath 
 Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer : 
 
 Tread lightly! — for the sanctity of death 
 
 Broods with a voiceless influence on the air ; 
 
 Stern, yet serene! — a reconciling spell 
 
 Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 
 
 Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 
 
 — Not for the light that pours its fer\'id streams 
 Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, 
 
 Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
 Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 
 Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom.
 
 THE MINSTER. 69 
 
 Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing. 
 Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high ; 
 
 Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, reveahng 
 Through incense mists their sainted pageantry ! 
 
 Though o'er the spirit each liath charm and power, 
 
 Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. 
 
 Hut by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
 Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 
 
 Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd 
 Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; 
 
 I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 
 
 Known to these altars of a thousand years. 
 
 Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse ! 
 
 That here hast bow'd wilii ashes on thy iiead ! 
 And thou, still battling with the tempest's force, 
 
 Thou, whosebright spirit through all time hath bled , 
 Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, 
 Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair? 
 
 No voice, no breath ! — of conflicts past no trace ! 
 
 — Doth not this hush give answer to my quest '. 
 Surely the dread religion of the place 
 
 By every grief hath made its might confess'd ! 
 — Oh! that within my heart I could but keep 
 Holy to heaven a spot, thus pure, and still, and deep !
 
 70 
 
 THERLA'S SONG. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 
 
 This song is said to have been composed bj- Schiller in answer 
 to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of Thekla, whose 
 beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of" Wallenstein's 
 Death," after her resolution to visit the giave of her lover is made 
 known. 
 
 Ask'st thou my home ? — my pathway wouldst thou 
 
 know, 
 When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd ( 
 Was not my work fulfiU'd and closed below ? 
 Had I not lived and loved ? — my lot was cast. 
 
 Wilt thou ask where the nightingale is gone, 
 Tliat, melting into song her soul away, 
 Gave the spring breeze what witch'd thee in its tone ? 
 — But while she loved, she lived in that sad lay. 
 
 Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found '. 
 Yes ! we are one, oh ! trust me, we have met, — 
 Where nought again may part what Love hath bound. 
 Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 
 
 There shalt thon find us, there with us be bless'd, 
 If as our love thr^ love is pure and true ! 
 There dwells my father*, sinless and at rest, 
 Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. 
 
 • Wallenstein.
 
 thekla's song. 71 
 
 And well he feels, no error of the dust 
 Drew to the stars of heaven his upward ken. 
 There it is with us, e'en as is our trust, 
 He that believes, is near the Holy then. 
 
 There shall each feeling, beautiful and high. 
 Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day — 
 Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye, 
 There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 
 
 THE iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 BY ALAUIC A. WATTS. 
 
 MotliiiilcH it Hliuuld liavf been inipo»siblc 
 
 Nut to Idvc all things in a world like thi^, 
 
 Wh«^re even the breezes and the coramun air 
 
 Contain Uie po\%er and spirit of harniouy.— Coleri[>ce. 
 
 IlAni' of the winds ! What music may compare 
 U'lth thy wild gush of melody ; — Or where 
 'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet 
 Tones like to thine — so soothing and so sweet ! 
 
 Har|)of the winds! When Summer's Zephyr wini;N 
 Ills airy flight across thy tremulous strings. 
 As if enamour'd (jf his breath, they move 
 With soft low murmurs, — like the voice of Ixjve 
 Kre passion deepens it, or sorrow mars 
 Its harmony with sighs ! — All eartliborn jars 
 C'onfp.ss thy soothing power, when stniins like Uiese 
 I'rom thy bliss-breathmg chords are borne upon the 
 breeze !
 
 72 THE .T.OLIAN HARP. 
 
 But Nvlien a more pervading force compels 
 Their sweetness into strength, — and swiftly swells 
 Each tenderer tone to fuhiess, — what a strange 
 And spirit stirring sense that fitful change 
 Wakes in my heart ! — Visions of days long past, — 
 Hope — joy — pride — pain — and passion — with tlie 
 
 blast 
 Come rushing on my soul, — till I believe 
 Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive, 
 Hath tix'd its spell upon me, and I grieve 
 I may not burst its bonds ! — Anon the gale 
 Softly subsides, — and whisperings wild prevail 
 Of inarticulate melody, which seem 
 Not music but its shadow ; — what a dream 
 Is to reality ; — or as the swell 
 (Those who have felt alone have power to tell) 
 Of the full heart where love was late a guest 
 Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest ! 
 The charm is o'er ! Each warring thought flits by, 
 Quell'd by that more than mortal minstrelsy ! 
 Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet control, 
 And peace once more returns, and settles on my soul ! 
 
 Harp of the winds ! thy ever tuneful chords. 
 In language far more eloquent than words 
 Of earth's best skill'd philosophers, do teach 
 A deep and heavenly lesson ! Could it reach. 
 With its impressive truths, the heart of man, 
 Then were he bless'd indeed ; and he might scan 
 His com.ing miseries with delight ! The storm 
 Of keen adversity would then deform 
 No more the calm stream of his thoughts, nor bring 
 Its wonted ' grisly train ;' but, rather wring 
 Sweetness from out his grief, — till even the string 
 On which his sorrows hung, should make reply, 
 However rudely swept, in tones of melody !
 
 73 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 There is a sweetness in woman's decay, 
 Wlien the liglit of beauty is fading away, 
 When the bright enchantment of youth is gone. 
 And tlie tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone. 
 And darted around its glance of power, 
 And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower, 
 That ever in Paestum's* garden blew. 
 Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew. 
 When all that was bright and fair is fled, 
 But the loveliness lingering round the dead. 
 
 O ! there is a sweetness in beauty's close, 
 Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose ; 
 For a nameless charm around her plays. 
 And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays, 
 And a veil of spotless purity 
 Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly die, 
 Like a cloud whereon, the queen of night 
 Has pour'd her softest tint of light; 
 And there is a blending of white and blue. 
 Where the purple blood is melting through 
 The snow of her pale and tender cheek ; 
 And there are tones, that sweetly speak 
 Of a spirit, that longs for a purer day, 
 And is ready to wing her flight away. 
 
 In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, 
 When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing 
 Its silent steps through a flowery path. 
 And all the endearments that pleasure hath 
 Are pour'd from her full, o'ertlowing horn, 
 When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, 
 
 • Bifcriqiic rosari.i I'icnti.— rirj'. 
 LYRE. L
 
 74 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 Ill her lightness of heart, to the cheery song 
 The maiden may trip in the dance along, 
 And think of the passing moment, that lies, 
 Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, 
 And yield to the present, that charms around 
 With all that is lovely in sight and sound, 
 Wiiere a thousand pleasing phantoms flit. 
 With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit. 
 And the music that steals to the bosom's core, 
 And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er 
 With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd, 
 For short is the stay of grief in her breast : 
 In this enliven'd and gladsome hour 
 The spirit may bnrn with a brighter power ; 
 But dearer the calm and quiet day, 
 When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away. 
 
 And when her sun is low declining, 
 And life wears out with no repining, 
 And the whisper, that tells of early death, 
 Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath. 
 When it conies at the hour of still repose, 
 To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose; 
 And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow, 
 Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; 
 And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, 
 But the hectic spot that flushes there, 
 When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, 
 In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, 
 And giving a tinge to her icy lips, 
 Like the. crimson rose's briglitest tips. 
 As richly red, and as transient too. 
 As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue, 
 That seem like a host of glory met 
 To honour the sun at his golden set : 
 O ! then, when the spirit is taking wing, 
 How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling.
 
 CONSUMPTION. 75 
 
 As it she would blend her soul with his 
 In a deep and long imprinted kiss; 
 ^o fondly the panting camel Hies, 
 \\'here the glassy vapour cheats his eyes, 
 And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, 
 And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. 
 And though her dying voice be mute, 
 ( >r faint as the tones of an unstrung lute. 
 And though the glow from her cheek be fled. 
 And her pale lips cold as the marble dead. 
 Her eye still beams unwonted fires 
 With a woman's love and a saint's desires, 
 And her last fond lingering look is given 
 To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven, 
 As if she would bear that love away 
 To a purer world and a brighter day. 
 
 AITHOR OF THE SORROWS OF ROSALIK 
 
 They tell me, lady, that thy face 
 
 Is as an angel's fair. 
 That tenderness is all the trace 
 
 Of earth thy features wear ; 
 Tliat we might hold thee seraph still. 
 
 But sighs with smiles unite. 
 And that thy large dark eyes will fill 
 
 With tears as well as light. 
 
 They tell me that thy wit when gay 
 
 Will turn to sad again — 
 The likeness of the lightning ray, 
 
 That melts in summer rain ;
 
 76 TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE. 
 
 And that the magic of thy words 
 
 Is even as thy song — 
 The sweetness of the sea-shell chords 
 
 The night winds bear along. 
 
 I will believe all they can say 
 
 Of fairy charm is thine — 
 My lips are murmuring now thy lay, 
 
 My tears on thy last line : 
 I've drank the music, sweet and low. 
 
 Waked by thy graceful hand ; 
 I must speak of thee — I am now 
 
 " Beneath the enchanter's wand." 
 
 I dream thee beautiful and bright, 
 
 Amid the festal crowd, 
 With lip and eye of flashing light. 
 
 Thy own self disavow'd. 
 They see the loveliness that burns, 
 
 The splendour round the shrine — 
 But not the poet soul which turns 
 
 Thy nature to divine. 
 
 I dream thee in thy lonely hour, 
 
 Thy long dark hair unbound. 
 The braiding pearl, the wreathing flower, 
 
 Flung careless on the ground ; 
 The crimson eager on thy cheek, 
 
 The light dark in thine eye — 
 While from thy parted lips there break 
 
 Sweet sounds, half song, half sigh. 
 
 A tale of feminine fond love, 
 
 The tender and the tried. 
 The heart's sweet faith, which looks above, 
 
 Long after hope has died.
 
 TO TIIE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE. 77 
 
 Even as the Spring comes to the rose, 
 
 And flings its leaves apart, 
 So what should woman's hand unclose ? — 
 
 The page of woman's heart. 
 
 The song is sad which thou hast sung: 
 
 Is sad ! — how canst thou know — 
 The loved, the lovely, and the young — 
 
 A single touch of woe. 
 Ah, yes ! the fire is in thy breast, 
 
 The seal upon thy brow. 
 Life has no calm, no listless rest, 
 
 For such a one as thou ; — 
 
 Thou, blending in thy harp and heart 
 
 The passionate, the wiUl, 
 The softness of the woman's part. 
 
 The sweetness of the child ; 
 With feelings like the lute's fine strings, 
 
 A single touch will break; 
 With hopes that wear an angel's wings, 
 
 And make the heaven they seek. 
 
 The stern, the selfish, and the cold, 
 
 With feelings all repress'd — 
 The many cast in one base mould. 
 
 Tor them life yields her best : 
 They plod upon one even way, 
 
 Till time, not life, is o'er; 
 Death cannot make them colder clay 
 
 Than what they were before. 
 
 But thou — go ask thy lute what fate 
 
 May for thy future be, 
 And it will tell thee tears await 
 
 The path of one like thee :
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE. 
 
 Too sensitive, like early flowers, 
 One unkind breath to bear, 
 
 What, in this weary world of ours, 
 But tears can be thy share ? 
 
 Yet little would I that such words 
 
 Of prophecy were sooth ; 
 I am so used to mournful chords, 
 
 To me they sound like tratli. 
 And if Fate have one stainless leaf, 
 
 That page to thee belong : 
 Sweet lady, only dream of grief, 
 
 And let the dream be song. 
 
 I pity those who sigh for thee, 
 
 I en\y those who love ; 
 For loved thy nature's form'd to be, 
 
 As seraphs are above. 
 I fling thee laurel offerings, 
 
 I own thy spirit's spell, 
 I greet the music of thy strings — 
 
 Sweet lady, fare thee well.
 
 79 
 
 ON THT. 
 
 I INERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST*, 
 
 AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGe's CHAPEL, WINDSOR. 
 BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES, 
 
 The castle clock had toll'd midnight — 
 
 With mattock and with spade, 
 And silent, by the torches' light. 
 
 His corse in earth we laid. 
 
 The coflfin bore his name, that those 
 
 Of otiier years might know, 
 When earth its secret should disclose, 
 
 Whose bones were laid below, 
 
 * Peace to the dead' no children sung. 
 
 Slow pacing up the nave; 
 No prayers were read, no knell was rung, 
 
 As deep we dug his grave. 
 
 We only heard the Winter's wind. 
 
 In many a sullen gust. 
 As o'er the open grave inclined, 
 
 We murmur'd, * Dust to dust !' 
 
 A moonbeam, from the arches' height, 
 .Stream'd, as we placed the stone ; 
 
 The long aisles started into light, 
 And all the windows shone. 
 
 * In ihr arrount of the barial of the king in Winditor Ca^llt■ ty 
 Sir Tliuinan llrrbcrt, tin- tpttt wht-n- the bo<l.\ wan laid is dvixrib* <l 
 iiiiniiicU , tippniiitc thr «lfv«ntli stall. Tlu- \vIhiI»- accuiint i» sin- 
 cut.irly impn-Mivf ; but it is rxtraordinarv it shoidd ever have 
 be»-n sii|i|i<>s(il that tin; |)la(-«' of interment wa^ iiiikii<>\Mi, whtii 
 thi>i di-^rriplioii cxiKli-d. At Hit- lair ariidi-iital (lisiiileriiKiit, smne 
 uf hi* hair was rut olf. .Soon after, the fdlloMinj! l=ne« \^eu' written, 
 whii li I niiw set before the reader for the fuM time.
 
 80 rUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 We thought we saw the banners then. 
 That shook along the walls, 
 
 \Miile the sad shades of mailed men, 
 Were gazing from the stalls. 
 
 'Tis gone ! again, on tombs defaced. 
 Sits darkness more profound. 
 
 And only, by the torch, we traced 
 Our shadows on the ground. 
 
 And now the chilly, freezing air, 
 Without, blew long and loud ; 
 
 Upon our knees we breathed one prayer 
 Where he — slept in his shroud. 
 
 We laid the broken marble floor — 
 No name, no trace appears — 
 
 And when we closed the sounding door 
 We thought of him with tears. 
 
 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, 
 
 ON CHANTREv's MONVMENT AT LICHFIEI D. 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Thus lay 
 The gentle babes, thus girdling one another 
 Within their alabaster innocent arms.— Shakspeahe- 
 
 Fair images of sleep ! 
 
 Hallow'd, and soft, and deep ; 
 On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies. 
 
 Like moonlight on shut bells 
 
 Of flowers in mossy dells, 
 Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies;
 
 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 81 
 
 I low many hearts have fell 
 
 Your silent beauty melt 
 Their strength to gushing tenderness away ! 
 
 How many sudden tears, 
 
 From dei)ths of buried years 
 All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway ! 
 
 How many eyes will shed 
 
 Still, o'er your marble bed, 
 Sucli drops, from xMemory's troubled fountains wrung ! 
 
 While Hope hath blights to bear, 
 
 While Love breathes mortal air, 
 While roses perish ere to glory sprung. 
 
 Yet, from a voiceless home, 
 
 If some sad mother come 
 T<» l)€nd and linger o'er your lovely rest ; 
 
 As o'er the cheek's warm glow, 
 
 And the soft breatliings low 
 Of babes, that grew and faded on her breast : 
 
 If then the dovelike tone 
 
 Of those faint murmurs gone, 
 O'er her sick sense too piercingly return ; 
 
 If for the soft bright hair. 
 
 And brow and bosom fair, 
 And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ; 
 
 O gentle forms entwined 
 
 Like tendrils, which the wind 
 May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink ; 
 
 Send from your calm profound 
 
 A still small voice, a sound 
 Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink. 
 
 By all the pure meek mind 
 In your pale beauty shrined, 
 J 2
 
 82 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 
 
 By childhood's love — too bright a bloom to die ! 
 
 O'er her worn spirit shed, 
 
 O fairest, holiest Dead ! 
 The Faith, Trust, Light, of Immortality ! 
 
 MY OWN FIRESIDE. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 Let others seek for empty joys, 
 
 At ball, or concert, rout, or play ; 
 Whilst, far from fashion's idle noise, 
 
 Her gilded domes, and trappings gay, 
 I while the wintry eve away, — 
 
 Twixt book and lute, the hours divide ; 
 And' marvel how I e'er could stray 
 
 From thee — my own Fireside ! 
 
 My own Fireside ! Those simple words 
 
 Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ; 
 Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 
 
 And fill with tears of joy my eyes ! 
 What is there my wild heart can prize. 
 
 That doth not in thy sphere abide. 
 Haunt of my home-bred sympathies. 
 
 My own — my own Fireside ! 
 
 A gentle form is near me now ; 
 
 A small white hand is cla?p'd in mine ; 
 I gaze upon her placid brow, 
 
 And ask what joys can equal thine ! 
 A babe, whose beauty's half divine. 
 
 In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide ; — 
 Where may love seek a fitter shrine, 
 
 Than thou — my own Fireside?
 
 MY OWN nilESIDE. 83 
 
 What care I for the sullen roar 
 
 Of winds without, that ravage eartii ; 
 It doth but bid me prize the more, 
 
 The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth ; — 
 To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth : 
 
 Then let the churlish tempest chide. 
 It cannot check tlie blameless mirth 
 
 That glads my own Fireside ! 
 
 My refuge ever from the storm 
 
 Of this world's passion, strife, and care ; 
 Though thunder clouds the sky deform, 
 
 Tlieir fury cannot reach me there. 
 There all is cheerful, calm, and fair, 
 
 Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or I*ride, 
 Hath never made its hated lair. 
 
 By thee — my own Fireside ! 
 
 Thy precincts are a charmed ring. 
 
 Where no harsh feeling dares intrude ; 
 Where life's vexations lose their sting ; 
 
 Wjiere even grief is half subdued : 
 And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. 
 
 Then, let the pamper'd fool deride, 
 I'll pay my debt of gratitude 
 
 To thee — my own Fireside ! 
 
 Shrine of my household deities ! 
 
 Fair scene of my home's imsullied joys ! 
 To thee my burthen'd spirit flies. 
 
 When fortune frowns, or care aimoys : 
 Thine is the bliss that never cloys-, 
 
 The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ; 
 What, then, are this world's tinsel toys 
 
 To thee — my own I'ireside !
 
 84 MY OWX FIRESIDE. 
 
 Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 
 
 That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
 Thus ever guide my wandering feet 
 
 To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! 
 Whate'er my future years may be ; 
 
 Let joy or grief my fate betide ; 
 Be still an Eden bright to me 
 
 3Iy own — MY OWN Fireside! 
 
 THE FROSTED TREES. 
 
 What strange enchantment meets my view, 
 
 So wondrous bright and fair ? 
 Has heaven pour'd out its silver dew^ 
 
 On the rejoicing air? 
 Or am I borne to regions new 
 
 To see the glories there ? 
 
 Last eve when sunset fiU'd the sky 
 
 With wreaths of golden light, 
 The trees sent up their arms on high, 
 
 All leafless to the sight, 
 And sleepy mists came down to lie 
 
 On the dark breast of night. 
 
 But now the scene is changed, and all 
 
 Is fancifully new ; 
 The trees, last eve so straight and tall. 
 
 Are bending on the view, 
 And streams of living daylight fall 
 
 The silvery arches through.
 
 THE FROSTED TREES. 85 
 
 The boughs are strung with glittering pearls, 
 
 As dewdrops bright and bland, 
 And there they gleam in silvery curls, 
 
 Like gems of Samarcand, 
 Seeming in wild fantastic whirls 
 
 The work of fairy land. 
 
 Each branch stoops meekly with the weight, 
 
 And in the light breeze swerves, 
 As if some viewless angel sate 
 
 Upon its graceful curves, 
 And made the fibres spring elate, 
 
 Thrilling the secret ner>'es. 
 
 Oh ! I could dream the robe of heaven, 
 
 Pure as the dazzling snow, 
 lieaming as when to spirits given. 
 
 Had come in its stealthy flow, 
 From the sky at silent even, 
 
 For the morning's glorious show. 
 
 THE BUGLE. 
 
 BY G RENVILLE M ELLEN. 
 
 But rtill the dingle's hollow throat 
 PruloncM ihe rwcllini; hiicle not*-, 
 The o\*lfti« Diarti'd from their dream, 
 1 he eaiih'H aii!twerM with their scream; 
 Round Mild around the MtiindA were rati. 
 Till echo Becin'd an answering M.iM. 
 
 LAUr OPTHt l.»kf. 
 
 (Jh ! wild enchanting horn ! 
 \N hose music up the deep and dewy ;iir 
 Swells to the clouds, aiul calls on Echo thrrf 
 
 Till a new melody is born.
 
 86 THE BUGLE. 
 
 Wake, wake again, the night 
 Is bending from her throne of beauty down. 
 With still stars burning on her azure crown, 
 
 Intense, and eloquently bright. 
 
 Night, at its pulseless noon ! 
 When the far voice of waters mourns in song, 
 And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long. 
 
 Barks at the melancholy moon. 
 
 Hark ! how it sweeps away. 
 Soaring and dying on the silent sky. 
 As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, 
 
 With lone halloo and roundelay ! 
 
 Swell, swell in glory out ! 
 Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart. 
 And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start, 
 
 As boyhood's old remember'd shout. 
 
 Oh ! have ye heard that peal. 
 From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements 
 Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, 
 
 Like some near breath around you steal ? 
 
 Or have ye in the roar 
 Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, 
 Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies, 
 
 Where wings'and tempests never soar? 
 
 Go, go — no other sound, 
 No music that of air or earth is born. 
 Can match the mighty music of that horn, 
 
 On midnight's fathomless profound !
 
 87 
 
 ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON, 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF CHILDE HAROLD. 
 BY GRANVILLE PENX. 
 
 Cold is the breast, extinct the vital spark, 
 That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse ; 
 The mental vision, too, how surely dark, 
 Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues, 
 Sees not a noble heart, that fain would choose 
 The course to heaven, could that course be found; 
 And, since on earth it nothing fears to lose, 
 Would joy to press that bless'd etherial ground, 
 Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love 
 abound. 
 
 1 " deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel," 
 Sieel'd is the heart that could the thought receive. 
 But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel. 
 Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve ; 
 And sorely do I view his vessel leave — 
 Like erring bark, of card and chart bereft — 
 The shore to which his soul would love to cleave ; 
 Would, Harold, 1 could make thee know full oft, 
 That bearing thus the helm, the land thouseek'st is left. 
 
 Is Harold " satiate with worldly joy ?" 
 
 " Leaves he his home, his land, without a sigh f" 
 
 'Tis half the way to heaven ! — oh ! then eni})lov 
 
 That blessed freedom of thy soul, to Hy 
 
 To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh, 
 
 Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard 
 
 chain ; 
 If early freed, though by satiety, 
 \'ast is the privilege that man may gain ; — 
 Who early foils the foe, may well the prize ohiaiii.
 
 88 \DDRESS TO LORD BYRON. 
 
 Tilou lovest Nature with a filial zeal, 
 
 Canst fly mankind to brood with her apart; 
 
 Unutterable sure, that inward feel, 
 
 When swells the soul, and heaves the labouring 
 
 heart 
 With yearning throes, which nothing can impart 
 But Nature's majesty, remote from man ! 
 In kindred raptures, I have borne my part; 
 The Pyrennean mountains loved to scan. 
 And from the crest of Alps peruse the mighty plan. 
 
 " 'Tis ecstasy to brood o'er flood and fell," 
 " To slowly trace the forest's shady scene," 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flocks that never need a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; — 
 This is not solitude ! — 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's God, and see His stores un- 
 roU'd." 
 
 Forget we not the Artist in the art. 
 Nor overlook the Giver in the grace ; 
 Say, what is Nature, but that little part 
 Which man's imperfect vision can embrace 
 Of the stupendous whole, which fills all space ; 
 The work of Him by whom all space is bound ! 
 Shall Raphael's pencil Raphael's self efface? 
 Shall Handel's self be lost in Handel's sound? 
 Or, shall not Nature's God in Nature's works be 
 found ? 
 
 But Harold " through sin's labyrinth has run," 
 Nor " made atonement when he did amiss ;" 
 And does the memory of that evil done 
 Disturb his spirit, or obscure his bliss ?
 
 ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON. 80 
 
 Tis just ; 'tis Harold's due — yet let not this 
 Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains ; 
 What mortal lives, not guilty nor remiss ( 
 What breast that has not felt remorse's pains ? 
 What human soul so pure, but mark'd by sin's dark 
 stains ? 
 
 And can this helpless thing, pollute, debased. 
 Its own disfigured nature e'er reform ? 
 Say, can the sculptured marble, once defaced, 
 Restore its lineament, renew its form ? 
 T/iaf can the sculptor's hand alone perform, 
 Else must the marr'd and mutilated stone 
 For ever lie imperfect and deform ; — 
 So man may sin and wail, but not atone ; 
 That restorative power belongs to God alone. 
 
 Yet is atonement made : — Creation's Lord 
 Deserts not thus the work his skill devised ; 
 Man, not his creature only, but his ward. 
 Too dearly in his Maker's eye is prized, 
 Than thus to be abandon'd and despised. 
 Atonement is the Almighty's richest dole. 
 And ever in the mystic plan comprised, 
 To mend the foul defacements of the soul. 
 Restore God'slikenesslost,and make the image wholf. 
 
 Oh ! " if, as holiest men have deem'd there be, 
 A land of souls beyond death's sable shore," 
 How would quick-hearted Harold burn to see 
 The much-loved objects of his life once more, 
 And Nature's new sublimities explore 
 In better worlds! — Ah! Harold, I conjure, 
 Sneak not in [fa; — to him wliom (iod hath taught, 
 If aught on earth, that blessed truth is sure ; 
 All gracioiis God, to quiet human thought, 
 Has pledged his sacred word, and den^onstratu>n 
 wrought.
 
 PO ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON. 
 
 Did Babylon, in truth, by Cyrus fall ? 
 Is't true that Persia stain'd the Grecian land ? 
 Did Philip's son the Persian host enthrall ? 
 Or Caesar's legions press the British strand ? 
 Fell Palestine by Titus' sword and brand ? — 
 Can Harold to such facts his faith entrust ? 
 Then let him humbly learn, and understand : — 
 " Then Christ is risen from the dead !" — the first 
 Dear pledge of mortal frames yet mouldering in the 
 dust. 
 
 But Harold " will not look beyond tlie tomb," 
 And thinks " he may not hope for rest before :" 
 Fie ! Harold, fie ! unconscious of thy doom, 
 The nature of thy soul thou know'st not more ; 
 Nor know'st thy lofty mind, which loves to soar ; 
 Thy glowing spirit, and thy thoughts sublime, 
 Are foreign to this flat and naked shore, 
 And languish for their owm celestial clime, 
 Far in the bounds of space, — beyond the bounds of 
 time. 
 
 There must thou surely live — and of that life 
 Ages on ages shall no part exhaust : 
 But with renew'd existence ever rife. 
 No more in dark uncertainty be toss'd. 
 When once the teeming barrier is cross'd ; 
 (The birth of mortals to immortal day) — 
 O let not then this precious hour be lost, 
 But humbly turn to Him who points the way 
 To ever-during youth, from infinite decay ! 
 
 Such, such the prospect, — such the glorious boon, 
 The last great end in Heaven's supreme design ; 
 Deem not thy cloud continuous, for soon 
 Must truth break in upon a soul like thine,
 
 ADDRESS TO LOUD UYUON. 01 
 
 Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine ; 
 i)h ! hear the gracious word to thee address'd 
 By Him, thy Lord, almighty and benign — 
 " Come unto me, all ye by care opi)ress'd ! 
 Come to my open arms, and I will give you rest I" 
 
 \\ ould thou hadst loved through Judah's courts to 
 
 stray ; 
 Would Sion 1 1 ill Parnassus' love might share ; 
 What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay 
 The sacred honours of that land declare. 
 And nil tiiat holy scene engage her care; 
 Where poets harp'd ere Homer's shell was strung, 
 Where heavenly wisdom pour'd her treasures rare, 
 Long, long ere Athens woke to Solon's song, 
 And truth-inspired seers of after ages sung. 
 
 Hut, thanks for what we have ; and for the more 
 Thy muse doth bid the listening ear attend, 
 Nor vainly bids those whom she charm'd before ; 
 ()\\ ! let not then this humble verse offend. 
 Her skill can judge the speaking of a friend ; 
 Not zeal presumptuous prompts the cautious strain, 
 Hut Christian zeal, that would to all extend 
 The cloudless ray and steady calm that reign, 
 \N here evangelic truths their empire due maiiitnin.
 
 92 
 
 CULLODEN. 
 
 Why linger on this battle heath, 
 
 So sterile, wild, and lonely now ? 
 Stranger! it tells a tale of death, 
 
 That well befits its barren brow. 
 Nay ! rest not on that swelling sod, 
 
 But let us hence : It marks a grave I 
 Whose verdure is the price of blood — 
 
 Tlie heart-stream of the vainly brave. 
 
 Long years ago, from o'er the sea, 
 
 A banish'd prince, of Stuart's line. 
 Came thither, claiming fealty 
 
 And succour in his sire's decline. 
 A triple diadem — a throne — 
 
 Ambition's toys — his birthright were ; 
 Of valleys, lakes, and mountains lone. 
 
 Of all our country, was he heir. 
 
 And there we saw the chequer'd plaid 
 
 Across his bosom proudly cast, — 
 The mountain bonnet on his head, 
 
 Its black plumes streaming in the blast : 
 And then we heard the gathering cr}' 
 
 Come blended with the pibroch's strain, 
 And saw the fire-cross flashing by, 
 
 Our warriors gathering on the plam. 
 
 In sooth it was a stirring sight! 
 
 To these old eyes, grown dim with teai-s, 
 Still, piercing through the after-night, 
 
 The past in all its pomp appears. 
 These shelter'd glens and dusky hills. 
 
 Yon isles that gem the western wave. 
 Sent forth their strength like mountain rills, 
 
 To bleed, to die, — but not to save.
 
 CULLODEX. 93 
 
 Away we rush'd, for chiefs were there ; 
 
 And where should we, their clansmen, be 
 But by tlieir side ? — the worst to dare. 
 
 Aye cluingeless in fidelity. 
 And yon, young regal warrior, too. 
 
 So gaily in our tartans dress'd, 
 Was in our van ; there proudly flew 
 
 The heather o'er his dancingr crest. 
 
 Then came the Southron hand to hand, 
 
 And wide and wasting was the fray ; 
 But Victory smiled on Scotia's brand, 
 
 And swept their trembling ranks away. 
 We chased them o'er tlie border streams : 
 
 Then England heard our slogan shout, 
 And saw with dread the boreal gleams 
 
 Of Highland claymores flashing out. 
 
 The foe wax'd strong : our chieftains frown'd 
 
 In council on each other: then 
 We basely left our vantage ground, 
 
 And turn'd us home like beaten men. 
 "^'et England's blue-eyed yeomen bold. 
 
 Though vaunting in their long array, 
 Confess'd it was no j)lay to hold, 
 
 (Jr strike, the mountain deer at bay. 
 
 At length Culloden's boding heath. 
 
 Despairing, saw our clansmen stand. 
 While, flaming like the sword of death, 
 
 Before us gleam'd the Saxon brand. 
 It smote us merciless; it slew 
 
 The flower of many a warrior clan, 
 Till down yon bank the crimson dew. 
 
 To mingle with the hill stream ran.
 
 M4 CULLODEN. 
 
 Our chieftains sought their native hills ; 
 
 Our prince was hunted like the deer ; 
 The captives pour'd their blood in rills ; 
 
 Nor dared a vassal raise the spear. 
 Come, come away ! you've now the tale, 
 
 That cost our country tears of blood : 
 The Saxon conquer'd, and the Gael 
 
 Lies mouldering 'neath the verdant sod. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 
 
 '• Ou liis return from banishment, Camoens was shipwrecked at 
 tlie mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a 
 plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving hi> 
 poem of the Luciad, deluged with tiie waves as he brought it in 
 his hand to shore*."— Sismondi. 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water, 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swolu that met him.— Tempest. 
 
 Clouds gather'd o'er the dark blue sky. 
 
 The sun wax'd dim and pale, 
 And the music of the waves was changed 
 
 To the plaintive voice of wail; 
 And fearfully the lightning flash'd 
 
 Around the ship's tall mast, 
 While mournfully through the creaking shrouds 
 
 Came the sighing of the blast. 
 
 • He is described with his sword in his hand upon the atithoiity 
 of his own words :— 
 
 " N'huma mao livros, n'outra, ferro et aco, 
 N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena."
 
 TllF. SHIPWRF.CK OF CAMOFNS. 95 
 
 With pallid cheek the seamen shrank 
 
 Before the deepening gloom ; 
 I'ur ihey gazed on the black and boiling sea 
 
 As 'twere a yawning tomb ; 
 Hut on the vessel's deck stood one 
 
 With proud and changeless brow : 
 Xor pain, nor terror was in the look 
 
 He turn'd to the gulf below. 
 
 And calmly to his arm he bound 
 
 His casket and his sword ; 
 Unheeding, though with fiercer strengtii 
 
 The threatening tempest roar'd ; 
 Then stretch'd his sinewy arms and cried : 
 
 " For me there yet is hope, 
 Tlie limbs that have spurn'd a tyrant's chain 
 
 With the stormy wave may cope. 
 
 " Now let the strife of nature rage, 
 
 I'roudly 1 yet can claim, 
 Where'er the waters may bear me on, 
 
 -My fre('di)m and my fame." 
 'i he dreaded moment came too soon, 
 
 The sea swept madly on, 
 Till the wall of w;iters closed around 
 
 And the nol)le ship was gone. 
 
 Then rose one wild, half-stitled cry ; 
 
 The swimmer's bubbling breath 
 W;is all vnihcard, while the raging tid»* 
 
 Wrought well the t;tsk of death ; 
 H»»t 'mid the billows still was seen 
 
 The stranger's struggling form ; 
 And the meteor tinsh of his sword might see:n 
 
 Like a beacon 'mid the storm.
 
 96 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 
 
 For Still, while with his strong right arm 
 
 He buffeted the wave, 
 The other upheld that treasured prize 
 
 He would give life to save. 
 Was then the love of pelf so strong 
 
 That e'en in death's dark hour. 
 The base-born passion could awake 
 
 With such resistless power? 
 
 No ! all earth's gold were dross to him, 
 
 Compared with what lay hid, 
 Through lonely years of changeless woe, 
 
 Beneath that casket's lid ; 
 For there was all the mind's rich wealth. 
 
 And many a precious gem 
 That, in after years, he hoped might form 
 
 A poet's diadem. 
 
 Nobly he struggled till o'erspent, 
 
 His nerveless limbs no more 
 Could bear him on through the waves that rose 
 
 Like barriers to the shore ; 
 Yet still he held his long prized wealth, 
 
 He saw the wish'd for land — 
 A moment more, and he was thrown 
 
 Upon the rocky strand. 
 
 Alas ! far better to have died 
 
 Where the mighty billows roll, 
 Than lived till coldness and neglect 
 
 Bow'd down his havighty soul : 
 Such was his dreary lot, at once 
 
 His country's pride and shame ; 
 For on Camoen's humble grave alone 
 
 Was placed his wreath of fame.
 
 97 
 
 TO THE CRICKET. 
 
 BY llli: UEVF.REXI) THOMAS COLK. 
 
 SpiuoiiTLY Cricket, cliirking still 
 Merry music, sliort and shrill; 
 Iti my kitchen take thy rest 
 As a truly welcome guest ; 
 For no evils shall betide 
 Those with whom thou dost reside. 
 Nor shall thy good-omen'd strain 
 E'er salute my ear in vain. 
 With the best I can invent 
 I'll requite the compliment; 
 Like thy sonnets, I'll repay 
 Little sonnets, quick and gay. 
 
 Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd, 
 And by housewives much esteem'd, 
 Wilt not pillage for thy diet, 
 Nur deprive us of our quiet; 
 Like the horrid rat voracious, 
 Or the lick'rish mouse sagacious; 
 Like the herd of vermin base. 
 Or the pilf'ring reptile race : 
 lUit content art thou to dwell 
 In thy chimney-corner cell ; 
 There, unseen, we hear thee greet 
 Safe and simg, thy native heat. 
 
 Thou art happier, liappif r far, 
 Than the haj)py grasshopper, 
 Who, by nature, dotli partake 
 Something of ihy voice and tuake ; 
 Skipping lightly o'er the grass. 
 As lier sunny minutes pass ; 
 
 lYBE. r
 
 98 TO THE CRICKET. 
 
 For a summer month or two 
 She can sing and sip the dew : 
 But at Christmas, as in May, 
 Thou art ever brisk and gay. 
 Thy continued song we hear, 
 Trilhng, thrilling, aJl the year.- 
 
 Every day and every night 
 Bring to thee the same delight ; 
 Winter, summer, cold or hot. 
 Late or early, matters not ; 
 INIirth and music still declare 
 Thou art ever void of care : 
 "Whilst with sorrows and with fears, 
 We destroy our days and years ; 
 Thou, with constant joy and song, 
 Ev'r}' minute dost prolong, 
 Making thus thy little span 
 Lonser than the asre of ;Man. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY MISS LAXDON. 
 
 Are other rose-lips smiling. Love ? 
 Ah, heed them not ; you will not find 
 Lips more true, or eyes more kind. 
 Than mine, Love. 
 
 Are other white arms wreathing, Love 
 Are other fond sighs breathing, Love ? 
 Ah, heed them not ; but call to mind 
 The arms, the sighs, you leave behind- 
 All thine, Love.
 
 SONG. 99 
 
 Then gaze not on other eyes, Love ; 
 Breathe not other siglis, Love ; 
 You may find many a brighter one 
 Than your ow n rose, but tliere are none 
 So true to thee, Love. 
 
 All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love; 
 Fonder still, 'mid sadness. Love ; 
 Tliough changed from all that now thou art, 
 In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart 
 Would be the world to me, Love. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I'vL pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in 
 
 moments free from care. 
 Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her 
 
 hair; 
 Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest 
 
 skies, 
 And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her 
 
 witching eyes. 
 
 Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like 
 
 the swell 
 ( )f sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness 
 
 tell ; 
 She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of 
 
 sweetness and of mirth, 
 .\nd her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts, 
 
 that linger not on earth.
 
 100 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, 
 And all she said and did was with its own instinctive 
 
 grace ; 
 She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and 
 
 pleasant one, 
 And her light spirit saw no ill, in aught beneath the 
 
 sun. 
 
 I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never 
 
 met my view 
 'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and 
 
 hue. 
 And her smile came gently over me, like spring's 
 
 lirst scented airs. 
 And made me think life was not all a wilderness of 
 
 cares. 
 
 I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now 
 
 strays, 
 But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own 
 
 lost sunny days, 
 ^Vith moonlioht hours, and far oft' friends, and many 
 
 pleasant things 
 That have gone the way of all tlie earth, on Time's 
 
 resistless wings.
 
 I'Jl 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 bY I). M, MOIR. 
 
 .%idii cullies inlu the world like luoiiiiiig inusliroonis, soon 
 thriisliiig Dp their heads into the air, and cunveifing with their 
 kindred of the sdine production, and as^oon tliey turn into dust 
 jnd foreetlnlness.— Jlremy Taylor. 
 
 Who sleeps belo\v? — wlio sleeps below .' — 
 
 It is a question idle all ! 
 j\>k of the breezes as they blow, 
 
 Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ? 
 They murmur in the trees around, 
 And mock thy voice, an empty sound ! 
 
 A hundred summer suns have shower'd 
 
 Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright 
 
 A hundred winter storms have lour'd 
 NN'ith piercing floods, and hues of night, 
 
 •Since first this remnant of his race 
 
 Did tenant his lone dwelling-place. 
 
 \N'as he of high or low degree f 
 Did grandeur smile upon his lot ? 
 
 Or, iKirn to dark obscurity, 
 
 Dwelt he within some lonely cot, 
 
 And^ from his youtli to laliour we<l, 
 
 From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread ' 
 
 Say, died he ripe, and full of years, 
 Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld, 
 
 When sound was silence to his ears. 
 And the dim eyeball sight withheld ;
 
 102 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 Like a ripe apple falling down, 
 Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown ; 
 
 When all the friends that bless'd his prime, 
 Were vanish'd like a morning dream ; 
 
 Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time, 
 And scatter'd in oblivion's stream ; 
 
 Passing away all silently. 
 
 Like snow-flakes melting in the sea : 
 
 Or, 'mid the summer of his years, 
 
 When round him throng'd his children younus 
 When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears. 
 
 And anguish dwelt on every tongue. 
 Was he cut off", and left behind 
 A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd ? 
 
 Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring, 
 
 Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down ; 
 
 When she, his chosen, blossoming 
 In beauty, deem'd him all her own, 
 
 And forward look'd to happier years. 
 
 Than ever bless'd their vale of tears ? 
 
 Question no more, alas ! — 'tis vain — 
 The summer flowers in beauty blow, 
 
 And sighs the wind, and floods the rain, 
 O'er the poor bones that rot below ; 
 
 No mouldering record can we trace, 
 
 Of fame or fortune, rank or race ! 
 
 Tlien, what is life, when thus we see 
 No trace remain of life's career ? — 
 
 Mortal ! whoe'er thou art, for thee 
 A moral lesson liveth here ; 
 
 Place not on aught of earth thy trust ; 
 
 'Tis doom'd that^dust shall mix with dust.
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 103 
 
 What doth it matter then, if thus, 
 
 Without a stone, without a name, 
 To impotently herald us. 
 
 We tioat not on the breath of fame ; 
 But, like the dew-drop from the flower, 
 Pass, after glittering for an hour. 
 
 The soul decays not ; freed from earth. 
 And earthly toils, it bursts away ; — 
 
 Receiving a celestial birth. 
 
 And spurning oft' its bonds of clay. 
 
 It soars and seeks another sphere. 
 
 And blooms through Heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Do good ; shun evil ; live not thou. 
 
 As if in death thy being died ; 
 Nor Error's siren voice allow 
 
 To draw thy steps from truth aside : 
 Look to thy journey's end — the grave ! 
 And trust in Ilim whose arm can save.
 
 104 
 
 THE RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST 
 FROM CAPTIVITY. 
 
 BV MISS JEWSBURY. 
 
 Tlie restoration of Francis the First to liis liberty look place bo- 
 side the little river Andaye, which divides the kingdoms of France 
 and Spain. The moment his Spanish escort drew up on one side 
 of the river, an equal number of French troops appeared on the 
 opposite bank, and immediately afterwards Francis leaped into 
 the boat which awaited him, and reached the French shore. He 
 tlien mo«mted his horse and galloped otF at full speed, waving his 
 hand over his head, and crying aloud with a joyful voice, " I am 
 yet a King!" 
 
 O GLORIOUS is that morning sky ! 
 
 And gloriously beneath 
 Those vine-clad hills and valleys, lie 
 
 Fair France's living wreath ! 
 As yet that sky, ere dimm'd by night, 
 Sliall canopy a fairer sight, 
 
 And France exultant see. 
 More glorious than her vine-clad hills, 
 Or cloudless skies, or sunny rills, 
 
 Her captive King set free. 
 
 And yet amid the landscape fair 
 
 Glides Andaye like a dream ; 
 And the single bark at anchor there 
 
 Seems sleeping on the stream. 
 Far as the roving eye may sweep, 
 Uroods stirless beauty — quiet, deep, 
 
 On river, vale, and hill ; 
 ^^ hile low sweet sounds that murmur there, 
 Seem as they rise to melt in air, 
 
 And make repose more still. 
 
 I
 
 RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST. 103 
 
 But hark ! — a tumult on the plain ! 
 
 Plumes, banners, floating gay. 
 And the gathering of a gallant train 
 
 On the banks of fair Andaye ! 
 Yet calmly flows its silver tide, 
 Unconscious that on either side 
 
 A hostile realm is known ; 
 Unconscious that its waves detain 
 The hope of France, — the prize of Spain, — 
 
 King Francis from his throne. 
 
 Many a day in dark Madrid 
 
 Hath he borne the captive's thrall. 
 And often long'd his head were hid 
 
 Beneath a funeral pall ; 
 But now he views, with raptured glance, 
 His own bright realm, his darling France, 
 
 In glorious hues exj)and ! 
 Now, o'er the stream, with eager prow, 
 His bark speeds swiftly on, — and now 
 
 The monarch leaps to land ! 
 
 Glad shouts arise ! and warrior vows — 
 
 \'ows for a King to share ; 
 And helms are doff'd from stately brows, 
 
 And knees are bending there ; — 
 Each Knight and Noble waves his brand, 
 And swears by Heaven and his own right hand, 
 
 " Revenge ! and hale to Spain !'' 
 But joy alone is in the glance 
 Of him who treads the turf of France — 
 
 A King — a King again. 
 
 And now he mounts his gallant steed, 
 
 His plume waves on the wind — 
 And he flashes on with lightning speed. 
 
 While his train sweeps fast behind ! 
 r 2
 
 10(3 RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST. 
 
 Helm, brand, and banner, gleam around. 
 And victor shout, and trumpet sound, 
 
 Far o'er the landscape ring ! 
 But heard through all is the monarch's cry. 
 And echo peals it to the sky, — 
 
 " A King — yet, yet a King !" 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMAXS. 
 
 They grew in beauty, side by side, 
 They fiU'd one house with glee — 
 
 Their graves are sever'd far and wide. 
 By mount, and stream, and sea ! 
 
 Tlie same fond mother bent at night 
 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow. 
 She had each folded flower in sight — 
 
 Where are those dreamers now ? 
 
 One 'midst the forests of the west 
 
 By a dark stream is laid ; 
 The Indian knows his place of rest. 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
 The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
 
 He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 He was the loved of all, yet none 
 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are dres>'(i 
 
 Above the noble slain. 
 He wrapp'd his colours round his breast. 
 
 On a blood-red field of Snain.
 
 THE CRAVES OF A HOISI HOLD. U»7 
 
 And one — o'er her tlie myrtle showers 
 
 Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd, 
 She faded, 'mi<lst Italian flowers, 
 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 And parted thus, theif rest who ph'y'd 
 
 Beneath the same green tree, 
 \Vhose voices mingled as they pray'd 
 
 Around one parent knee ! 
 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
 And cheer'd with song the hearth — 
 
 Alas for love, \i thou wert all, 
 And nought beyond on earth ! 
 
 THK POINTS BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 IIV ALLAN CLXMNGHAM. 
 
 < ) ! >n love's like the steadfast sun, 
 
 ( )r streams that deepen as they run ; 
 
 Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
 
 Nor moments between sighs and tears, — 
 
 Nor nights of thr»ught, nor days of pain, 
 
 Nor dreams of '/lory dream'd in vain, — 
 
 Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 
 
 'I'o sober joys and soften woes, 
 
 Can make my heart or fancy flee 
 
 ( )ne moment, my sweet wife, from thee ! 
 
 Kven while I muse, I see thee sit 
 In maiden bloom, and matron wit — 
 Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 
 Ye seem, but of sedater mood :
 
 108 THE rOET*S BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 ^'et my heart leaps as fond for thee 
 
 As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 
 
 We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon 
 
 Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
 
 Or linger'd, 'mid the falling dew. 
 
 When looks were fond and words were few. 
 
 Though I see smiling at thy feet 
 Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; 
 And time and care and birth-time woes 
 Have dimm'd thy eye, and touch'd thy rose : 
 To thee and thoughts of thee belong 
 All that charms me of tale or song; 
 When words come down like dews unsought 
 With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
 And fancy in her heaven flies free — 
 They come, my love, they come from thee. 
 
 (), when more thought we gave of old 
 
 To silver than some give to gold ; 
 
 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
 
 What things should deck our humble bower ! 
 
 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee 
 
 The golden fruit from Fortune's tree; 
 
 And sweeter still to choose and twine 
 
 A garland for those locks of thine — 
 
 A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
 
 While rivers flow and woods are green. 
 
 At times there come, as come there ought, 
 Grave moments of sedater thought, — 
 When Fortune frowns, nor lends our nigl^t 
 One gleam of her inconstant light; 
 And hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 
 Shines like the rainbow through the shower : 
 O then I see, while seated nigh, 
 A mother's heart shine in thine eve ;
 
 THE POET S BRIDAL SONG. 109 
 
 And proud resolve, and purpose meek, 
 Speak of thee more than words can speak : — 
 I think the wedded wife of mine 
 The best of all lliat's not divine ! 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 There was a Tempest brooding in the air, 
 Far in the west. Above, the skies were fair. 
 And the sun seem'd to go in glory down — 
 One small black cloud (one only), like a crown 
 Touch'd his descending disk, and rested there: 
 Slow then it came along, to the great wind 
 llebellious, and, although it blew and blew, 
 Came on increasing, and across the blue 
 Spread its dark shape, and left the sun behind. 
 The daylight sank, and the winds wail'd about 
 The barque wherein the luckless couple lay, 
 And from the distant cloud came scattering out 
 Rivers of fire: it seem'd as though the day 
 Had burst from out the billows far away. 
 No pilot had they their small boat to steer 
 Aside from rocks ; no sea-worn mariner, 
 Who knew each creek and bay and shell'ring steep 
 And all the dangers of the turbulent deep. 
 Tlu-y tied for life (for happiness is life), — 
 And met the Temj)est in his hour of strife 
 Abroad upon the waters : they were driven 
 Against them by the angry winds of Heaven; 
 Or thus it seem'd : the clouds, the air, the sea, 
 Itose from unnatural dead traiupnllity. 
 And came to battle with their legions : hail 
 Shot shattering down, and thunders roar'd aloud, 
 And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud
 
 110 A STORM. 
 
 Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale, 
 And darted through the Heavens. Below, the gale 
 Sang like a dirge, and the white billows lash'd 
 Tiie boat, and then like ravenous lions dash'd 
 Against the deep wave-hidden rocks, and told 
 Of ghastly perils as they backward roU'd. 
 
 The lovers driven along from hour to hour, 
 Were helpless — hopeless — in the ocean's power. 
 The storm continued ; and no voice was heard. 
 Save that of some poor solitarj- bird. 
 That sought a shelter on the quivering mast ; 
 Hut soon borne off by the tremendous blast, 
 .Sank in the waters, screaming. The great sea 
 Bared, like a grave, its bosom silently, 
 Tiien fell and panted like an angry thing 
 ^^'ith its own strength at war : the vessel flew 
 Towards the land, and then the billows grew 
 J.arger and white, and roar'd as triumphing, 
 .Scattering afar and wide the heavy spray, 
 That shone like bright snow as it pass'd away. 
 At first, the dolphin and the porpoise dark 
 Came rolling by them, and the hungry shark 
 I'ollow'd the boat, patient and eager eyed. 
 And the gray curlew slanting dipp'd her side. 
 And the hoarse gull his wings within the foam : 
 But some had sunk — the rest had hurried home. 
 And now pale Julia and her husband (clasp'd 
 Each in the other's arms) sate viewing death ; 
 She, for his sake in fear, silently gasp'd, 
 And he to cheer her kept his steady breath. 
 Talking of hope, and smiled like morning. Tliere 
 They sate together in their sweet despair : 
 Sometimes upon his breast she laid her head, 
 And he upon her silent beauty fed. 
 Hushing her fears, and 'tween her and the storm 
 Drew his embroider'd cloak to keep her warm ;
 
 Ill 
 
 She ihank'd liiin with a look upturn 'd to liis, 
 The which he answer'd by a tender kiss, 
 Press'd and prolonr^'d to pain ! her li|i was cold, 
 And all her love and terror mutely told. 
 — The vessel struck. 
 
 ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TRANSLATION 
 OF TASSO. 
 
 BY J. H. WIFFEX. 
 
 Farf. thee well, soul of sweet Romance ! farewell, 
 Harp of the South ! the stirring of whose strings 
 
 Has given, by power of their melodious spell. 
 Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings, 
 
 Tlial — rapt in spirit to the Delphic cell, 
 
 'Midst its green laurels and prophetic springs, — 
 
 The tuneful labours of past years now seem 
 
 A brief indulgence — an enchanted dream. 
 
 My pride at noon, my vision of the night, 
 My hope at morn, my joy at lonely eve ! 
 
 Now that thy tones of magical delight 
 
 Are o'er, do I not well to droop and grieve ? 
 
 To what new region shall the Muse take flight, 
 \Vh;it pictures fashion, what fresh numbers wt'a\f. 
 
 When all that else had charm'd must now appear 
 
 Tame to the eye and tuneless to the ear ? 
 
 ^luch shall I miss thee when, in calm rt»post'. 
 The Summer moon upon my ciusement shines ; 
 
 Much, when the nu'laiicholy Autumn strows 
 
 With leaves my walk beneath the'o'erarching pines. 
 
 Nor less when Spring, 'twixt shower an<l snnsliine, 
 throws 
 
 Abroad iKe sweet breath of her eglantines,
 
 112 ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR's TASSO. 
 
 And Winter deepens with its stormy din 
 The quiet charm of the bright hearth within. 
 
 If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view, 
 
 I sought to give thy foreign chords a tongue. 
 Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew. 
 
 When on thy cypress bough again thou'rt hung ; 
 But sometimes w^liisper of me to the few 
 
 I love, the fond, the faithful and the young, 
 And those who reverence the wrong'd soul that 
 
 ♦ plann'd 
 Thy world of sound with archangelic hand . 
 
 Hear how the strings, dear Ida, sound abroad 
 The grief and glory of that matchless mind ! 
 
 What ardour glows in each seraphic chord ; 
 How deep a passion Echo leaves behind ! 
 
 Yet was he wretched whom all tongues applaud, — 
 For peace he panted, for affection pined : 
 
 Be thou, whilst thy mild eyes with pity swim. 
 
 More kind to me than Aura was to him; — 
 
 Else shall I little prize the' indulgent praise 
 Which some may lavish on a task so long ; 
 
 Else shall I mourn, that e'er my early days 
 Were given to feeling, solitude, and song; 
 
 But thee no light capricious fancy sways, 
 
 To doubt till/ truth would be the heavens to 
 wrong ; 
 
 Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell ! 
 
 And thou, Hesperian Harp, farewell, farewell !
 
 113 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 in D. M. MorR. 
 
 'Ti-> niglit, and in darkness; — tlie visions of youth 
 
 Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind ; 
 The hopes that excited have perish'd ; — and truth 
 
 Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. 
 Tis midnight; — and wide o'er the regions of riot 
 
 Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose ; 
 And man soothed from revel and luU'd into quiet, 
 
 Forgets in his slumber tiie weight of iiis woes. 
 How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, 
 
 Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest : 
 Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given, 
 
 To omen a something like ho])e in the breast. 
 Hark ! how the lone night-wind up-losses the forest ; 
 
 A downcaiit regret through the mind slowly steals : 
 Hut ah ! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, tiiat sorest 
 
 The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. 
 Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust ; 
 
 Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn .' 
 Alas ! they are gone to their homes in the dust ; 
 
 The grass rustles drearily over their urn : 
 N\'hilst I, in a populous solitude languish, 
 
 'Mid foes who beset me, ;ind friends who are cold : 
 Yes, — the pilgrim of f-arth oft has fj-lt in his anguisii 
 
 That the hrart may \n: widow'd before it be old ! 
 Affection can soothe hut its vul'rii-s an hour, — 
 
 Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to di-part ; 
 Htit oh ! DisJippointment has jioison and power 
 
 To ruffle and fret the most ])atient of heart ! 
 How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice 
 
 Hiith merit been destined to bear and to bleed ; 
 And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalic*-. 
 
 Can tell that the dregs are full l)itter indeed !
 
 114 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Let the storms of adversity lour, — 'tis in vain, 
 
 Though friends should forsake me and foes should 
 condemn ; 
 These may kindle the breasts of the weak to com- 
 plain 
 They only can teach resignation to mine : 
 For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreamins. 
 
 The spirit beholds a less perishing span ; 
 And bright through the tempest the rainbow is 
 streaming, — 
 The sign of forgiveness from Maker to Man ? 
 
 SEASONS FOR LOVING. 
 
 BY W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 DosT thou idly ask to hear 
 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
 
 Press the tenderest reasons ? 
 Ah, they give their faith too oft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are always soft. 
 
 Would that men's were truer ! 
 
 Woo the fair one, when around 
 
 Early birds are singing ; 
 When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 
 
 Early flowers are springing : 
 When the brookside, bank and grove, 
 
 All with blossoms laden, 
 Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
 i
 
 SEASONS FOR LOVING. 115 
 
 Woo her, when, with rosy bhish, 
 
 Summer eve is sinking ; 
 When, on rills that softly gush, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ; 
 When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealing; 
 Woo her, till the gentle hour 
 
 Wakes a gentler feeling. 
 
 Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 When the dropping foliage lies, 
 
 In the half-choked fountain ; 
 Let the scene, that tells how fast 
 
 Youth is passing over, 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past. 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 Woo her when the north winds call 
 
 At the lattice nightly ; 
 When, within the cheerful hall. 
 
 Blaze the faggots brightly ; 
 While tlie wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary. 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story.
 
 116 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 BY MISS LAN DON, 
 
 She was one 
 Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung 
 With myrtle and with laurel : on whose head 
 Genius had shed his starry glories, — transcripts 
 Of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment. 
 
 Sue leant upon her harp, and thousands look'd 
 
 On her in love and wonder ; — thousands knelt 
 
 And worship'd in her presence : — burning tears, 
 
 And words that died in utterance, and a pause 
 
 Of breathless agitated eagerness, 
 
 First gave the full heart's homage, then came fortli 
 
 A shout that rose to heaven ; and the hills, 
 
 The distant valleys, all rang with the name 
 
 Of the ^-Eolian Sappho! — Every heart 
 
 Found in itself some echo to her song. 
 
 Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh, — 
 
 And some gone by for ever — glorious dreams, 
 
 High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts 
 
 Tliat dwell upon the absent and the dead, 
 
 Were breathing in her music — and these are 
 
 ('hords every bosom vibrates to. But she 
 
 Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, 
 
 Her colour's varying with deep emotion — 
 
 There is a softer blush than conscious pridt^ 
 
 I 'pon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile 
 
 Is all a woman's timid tenderness. 
 
 Her eye is on a Youth, and other days 
 
 And feelings warm have rush'd on her soul 
 
 With all their former influence; — thoughts that slej^ 
 
 Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to new life ; — 
 
 Wiiole years' existence have pass'd in that glance.—
 
 SAPPHO. 117 
 
 She had once loved in very early days ; 
 
 That was a thing gone by. One had call'd forth 
 
 'llie music of her soul. — He loved her too, 
 
 iJut not as she did : — she was unto him 
 
 .\s a young bird, whose early flight he train'd, 
 
 Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught 
 
 Those songs : — but she look'd up to him with all 
 
 >'outh's deep and passionate idolatry ; — 
 
 ]x)ve was her heart's sole universe — he was 
 
 To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, — the God 
 
 Her inmost spirit worship'd, — in whose smile 
 
 Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious ; praise 
 
 Was i)ri7.ed but as the echo of his own. 
 
 Hut other times and other feelings- came : — 
 
 Ikipe is love's element, and love with her 
 
 .Sicken'd of its own vanity. — She lived 
 
 Mid bright realities and brighter dreams, 
 
 Those strange but exquisite imaginings 
 
 That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts; 
 
 And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path ; 
 
 And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never 
 
 Had look'd on Sappho, yet had wej)t with her. 
 
 Her first love never wholly lost its power, 
 
 Hut, like rich incense shed, although no trace 
 
 Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness 
 
 Mingled with every feeling, and it gave 
 
 That soft and melancholy tenrlerness 
 
 \N hich was the nia^ic of her ^ong. — That Youth 
 
 Who knelt before her was so like the shape 
 
 That haunted her spring dreams — the same dark eyes, 
 
 Whose light had once been as the light of heaven ! — 
 
 Others breathed winning flatteries, — she turn'd 
 
 A careless hearing; — but when I'haon spoke, 
 
 Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light 
 
 I'pon her cheek gave a most tender answer. — 
 
 S!io loved with all the ardour of a heart 
 
 Which lives but in itself; her life had pass'il
 
 118 SAPPHO. 
 
 Amid the grand creations of the thought. 
 Love was to her a vision ; — it was now 
 Heighten'd into devotion. — But a soul 
 So gifted and so passionate as her's 
 Will seek companionship in vain, and find 
 Its feelings solitary. — Phaon soon 
 Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ; 
 And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame, 
 May not sooth slighted love. 
 
 There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea ; 
 'Twas there love's last song echo'd : — there she sleeps, 
 Whose lyre was crown'd with laurel, and whose name 
 Will be remeraber'd long as Love or Song 
 Are sacred — the devoted Sappho ! 
 
 THE LOST PLEL\D. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 •• Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."— Lord Byp.o.v. 
 
 And is there glory from the Heavens departed ? 
 
 — Oh, void unmark'd ! — thy sisters of the sky 
 Still hold their place on high. 
 Though from its rank thine orb so long hath starter), 
 
 Thou ! that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 
 
 Hath tlie night lost a gem, the regal night? 
 
 — She wears her crown of old magnificence, 
 Though thou art exiled thence ! 
 No desert seems to part those urns of light, 
 
 Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
 
 THE LOST PLCIAD. 119 
 
 They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning ! 
 
 The shepherd greets them on his mountains free, 
 And from the silvery sea 
 To tliem the sailor's wakeful eye is turning ; 
 
 Uncliangedtliey rise, they have not mourn'd for thee ! 
 
 ('ouldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 
 E'en as the dewdrop from the myrtle spray, 
 Swept by the wind away ? 
 
 Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
 And was there power to smite them with decay ( 
 
 Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ' 
 It is too sad to think on what ue are, 
 When from its heiglit afar, 
 
 A world sinks thus ; and yon majestic Heaven 
 Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star ! 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT, 
 
 .SUPPOSED TO BE OF NELL GWVN 
 liY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 Beai III I L and radiant girl ! 
 I have heard of teeth of pearl, — 
 Lips of coral, — cheeks of rose, — 
 Necks and brows like drifted snows, — 
 Eyes, as diamonds sparkling bright, 
 Or the stars of suuiumt's night, — 
 And '.'Xj>ression, grace, and soul. 
 Softly temj)ering down the whole : — 
 But a form so near divine, 
 With a face so fair as thine, — 
 And so sunny bright a brow, — 
 Never met my gaze till now ! 
 Thou wert \'enus' sister-twin 
 If this shade be thme, Ni.ll Gwvn !
 
 120 ON A rORTRAIT OF NELL GWVN. 
 
 Cast that carcanet away, 
 Thou hast need of no display — 
 Gems, however rare, to deck 
 Such an alabaster neck ! 
 Can the brilliant's lustre vie 
 ^Vith the glories of thine eye ? 
 Or the ruby's red compare 
 With the two lips breathing there ? 
 Can they add a richer glow- 
 To thy beauties ? No, sweet, no ! 
 Though thou bear'st the name of one 
 Whom 'twas virtue once to shun, — 
 It were sure to taste a sin, 
 Noiv to pass thee by — Nell Gwyn. 
 
 But they've wrong'd thee ; — and I swear 
 By that brow, so dazzling fair, — 
 By the light subdued that flaslies 
 From thy drooping lids' silk lashes, — 
 By the deep blue eyes beneath them, — 
 By the clustering curls that wreathe them, 
 By thy softly blushing cheek, — 
 By thy lips, that more than speak,-^ 
 By thy stately swanlike neck, 
 Glossy white without a speck, — 
 By thy slender fingers fair, — 
 Modest mien, — and graceful air, — 
 'Twas a burning shame and sin. 
 Sweet, to christen thee — Nell Gwyn. 
 
 Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms. 
 Thine are, sure, no wanton's charms ! 
 Like the fawn's as bright and shy — 
 Beams thy dark, retiring eye; — 
 No bold invitation's given 
 From the depths of that blue heaven,— 
 Nor one glance of lightness hid 
 'Neath its pale declining lid I
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF NELL GWYX, l'2l 
 
 No, I'll not believe /Ay name 
 
 Can be aught allied to shame. 
 
 Then let them call thee what they will, 
 
 I've sworn, and I'll maintain it still 
 
 (Spite of tradition's idle din), 
 
 Thou art not — canst not be — Nell Gwyn ! 
 
 A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND, 
 
 BY JOSEPH RITCHIE, ESQ, 
 
 Thy chalky cliffs are fading from my view. 
 Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea, 
 I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu, 
 Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to ihce ! 
 Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy, 
 Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild deligiit, 
 Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents, were to mr 
 The food of my soul's youthful appetite, — 
 Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight ! 
 
 I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold, 
 Straightway thy daughters llash'd upon my eye ; 
 I never mused on valour, but the old 
 Memorials of thy h-.iughty chivalry 
 Fill'd my expanding sovd with ecstasy; 
 And when I thought on wisdom and the crown 
 The muses give, with exultation high, 
 I turn'd to those whom thou hast cali'd thine own. 
 Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renow n. 
 
 When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour, 
 At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm, 
 Her voice came to me from an Vjiglish bower, 
 And English were the smiles that wrought the charm 
 
 lYRE. (.
 
 1'22 A FAREWELL TO EXGLAXD. 
 
 And if, when wrapp'd asleep on Fancy's arm, 
 Visions of bliss my riper years have cheer'd, 
 Of home, and love's hreside, and greetings warm, 
 For one by absence and long toil endear'd, 
 The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been rear'd. 
 
 Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone ; 
 And mayest thou still thine ancient dowrj' keep, 
 To be a mark to guide the nations on, 
 Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep ; — 
 Still mayest thou bid the sorrower cease to weep, 
 And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night 
 That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep 
 Starting, remotest nations see the light. 
 And earth be bless'd beneath the buckler of thy might. 
 
 Strong in thy strength I go; and wheresoe'er 
 My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget 
 All that I owe to thee ; and O may ne'er 
 ]\Iy frailties tempt me to abjure that debt ! 
 And what, if far from thee my star must set, 
 Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear 
 The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, 
 And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear 
 Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's deserts drear. 
 
 Yet I will not profane a charge like mine, 
 With melancholy bodings, nor believe, 
 That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine 
 Of my own heart, spake only to deceive ; 
 I trust its promise, that I go to weave 
 A ^^Teath of palms, entwined with many a sweet 
 Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave 
 Of all its fragrance, — tliat I yet shall greet 
 Once more the ocean queen, and cast it at her feet.
 
 123 
 
 THE INDIAN HUNTER. 
 
 BV H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 WnFN ilie summer harvest was gather'd in, 
 
 And tlie sheaf of the gleaner grew white and tliin, 
 
 And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, 
 
 Where the stubble land had been lately cleft, 
 
 An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, 
 
 Look'd down where the valley lay stretch'd below. 
 
 He was a stranger, and all that day 
 Had been out on the hills, a perilous way, 
 But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, 
 And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet. 
 And bitter feelings pass'd o'er him then. 
 As he stood by the populous haunts of men. 
 
 The winds of Autumn came over the woods 
 As the sun stole out from their solitudes, 
 Tije moss was white on the maple's trunk. 
 And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk. 
 And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red 
 \Vere the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed. 
 
 The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, 
 And the sickle cut down tlie yellow corn — 
 Thf mower sung loud by the meadow side. 
 Where the mists of evening were spreading wide, 
 And the voice of the lierdsman came up the lea. 
 And the dance went round by the greenwood tree. 
 
 Then the hunter turned away from that scene. 
 Where the home of his fathers once had been. 
 And heard by the distant and measured stroke, 
 That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak,
 
 124 THE INDIAN HUNTER. 
 
 And burning thoughts flash'd o'er his mind 
 Of the white man's faith, and love unkind. 
 
 The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, 
 As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white — 
 A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, 
 Where the beech o'ershadow'd the misty lake, 
 And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore ; — 
 And the hunter was seen on the hills no more. 
 
 When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side 
 The fisher look'd down through the silver tide, 
 And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd, 
 A skeleton wasted and white was laid. 
 And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, 
 That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. 
 
 AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF 
 HIS FATHERS. 
 
 BY W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 It is the spot I came to seek, — 
 
 My fathers' ancient burial-place, 
 Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 
 
 Withdrew our wasted race. 
 It is the spot, — I know it well — 
 Of which our old traditions tell . 
 
 For here the upland bank sends out 
 
 A ridge toward the river side ; 
 I know the shaggy hills about, 
 
 The meadows smooth and wide ; 
 The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 
 Fenced east and west by mountains lie.
 
 BLRYIXC-PLACE OF THE INDIANS. 125 
 
 Tlie sheep are on the slopes around, 
 
 'Hie cattle in the meadows feed, 
 Ami labourers turn the crumbling ground 
 
 Or drop the yellow seed, 
 And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 
 Wjiirl tlie bright chariot on its way. 
 
 Metliinks it were a nobler sight 
 
 To see these vales in woods array'd, 
 
 Tlieir summits in the golden light, 
 Their trunks in grateful shade. 
 
 And herds of deer, that bounding go 
 
 O'er rills and prostrate trees below. 
 
 And then to mark the lord of all. 
 
 The forest hero, train'd to wars, 
 Quiver'd and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
 
 And seam'd with glorious scars. 
 Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 
 Tlie wolf, and grapple with the bear. 
 
 This bank, in which the dead were laid. 
 Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 
 
 Hither the artless Indian maid 
 
 Brought w reaths of beads and flowers, 
 
 And the <,'ray chief and gifted seer 
 
 Worship'd the God of thunders here. 
 
 Rut now the wheat is greon and high 
 On clods tliat hid the warrior's breast, 
 
 And scatter'd in the furrows, lie 
 The weapons of his rest; 
 
 And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 
 
 Of his large arm the mouldering bone.
 
 126 BURYING-PLACE OF THE INDIANS. 
 
 Ah little thought the strong and brave, 
 Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth ; 
 
 Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
 Her first-born to the earth, 
 
 That the pale race, who waste us now. 
 
 Among their bones should guide the plougli. 
 
 They waste us — aye — like April snow 
 In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 
 
 And fast they follow, as we go 
 Towards the setting day, — 
 
 Till they shall fill the land, and we 
 
 Are driven into the western sea. 
 
 But I behold a fearful sign. 
 
 To which the white men's eyes are blind ; 
 Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 
 
 And leave no trace behind. 
 Save ruins o'er the region spread, 
 And the white stones above the dead. 
 
 Before these fields were shorn and till'd, 
 Full to the brim our rivers flow'd ; 
 
 The melody of waters fill'd 
 
 The fresh and boundless wood ; 
 
 And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd, 
 
 And fountains spouted in the shade. 
 
 Those grateful sounds are heard no more. 
 The springs are silent in the sun. 
 
 The rivers, by the blackening shore, 
 With lessening current run; 
 
 Tlie realm our tribes are crush'd to get 
 
 Mav be a barren desert vet.
 
 127 
 
 THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? 
 
 Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main 
 Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, 
 
 Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain. 
 Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
 
 We ask not such from thee. 
 
 Yet more, the Depths have more ! — What wealth 
 untold. 
 Far down, and shining through tlieir stillness, lies ! 
 Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
 
 Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. 
 Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main ! 
 Eartii claims not these again ! 
 
 Yet more, the Depllis have more ! — Thy waves have 
 roird 
 Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
 Sand hath fiU'd up the palaces of old, 
 
 Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! 
 Dash o'er them. Ocean! in thy scornful play, 
 Man yields them to decay • 
 
 Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more ! 
 
 High hearts and brave are gatlier'd to thy breast ! 
 Tliey hear not now the booming waters roar, — 
 
 The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 
 Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! — 
 Give back the true and brave !
 
 128 TREASURES OF THE DEEP, 
 
 Give back the lost and lovely ! — Those for whom 
 
 The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; 
 The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 
 gloom, 
 And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song I 
 Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrownj 
 — But all is not thine own 1 
 
 THE RETURN FROM INDIA. 
 
 I CAME, but they had passed aw^ay, 
 The fair in form, the pure in mind ; 
 
 And like a stricken deer I stray, 
 
 Where all are strange, and none are kind 
 
 Kind to the worn, and wearied soul, 
 Tliat pants, that struggles for repose : 
 
 ! that my steps had reach'd the goal 
 \\'here earthly sighs and sorrows close. 
 
 Years have pass'd o^er me, like a dream. 
 That leaves no trace on memory's page i 
 
 1 look around me, and I seem 
 Some rehc of a former age. 
 
 Aloae, as in a stranger-clime, 
 
 Where stranger-voices mock my ear * 
 
 I mark the lagging course of time, 
 Without a wish — a hope — a fear 1 
 
 Yet I had hopes — and they are fled ; 
 
 And I had fears were all too true : 
 My wishes too ! — but they are dead,. 
 
 And what have I with life to do I
 
 THE RETURN FROM INDIA. 129 
 
 'Tis but to bear a weary load, 
 
 I may not, dare not cast away ; 
 To sigh for one small, still abode, 
 
 Where I may sleep as sweet as they : 
 
 As they, the loveliest of their race, 
 
 Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep ; 
 Whose worth my soul delights to trace — 
 
 Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep ; 
 To weep beneath the silent moon. 
 
 With none to chide, to hear, to see. 
 Life can bestow no dearer boon 
 
 On one whom death disdains to free. 
 
 I leave a world that knows me not. 
 
 To hold communion with the dead ; 
 And fancy consecrates the spot, 
 
 Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 
 I see each shade, all silvery white — 
 
 I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; 
 I turn to clasp those forms of light, 
 
 And the pale morning chills my eye. 
 
 But soon the last dim morn shall rise, 
 
 The lamp of life burns feebly now, — 
 When stranger hands shall close my eyes. 
 
 And smooth my cold and dewy brow. 
 Unknown I lived — so let me die; 
 
 Nor stone, nor monumental cross, 
 Tell where his nameless ashes lie, 
 
 Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross. 
 
 G 2
 
 130 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 WRITTEN AFER HAVING READ AN ACCOUNT OF HIS 
 rVNERAL. 
 
 BY THE REV. ^V. L. BOWLES. 
 
 So ENDS Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage ! 
 Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried 
 " Liberty !" and the shores from age to age 
 Ilenown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied, 
 " Liberty !" but a Spectre, at his side, 
 Stood, mocking— and its dart uplifting high 
 Smote him — he sunk to earth in life's fair pride ; 
 While Sparta's rocks echo'd a fainter cr}', 
 And old Ilissus sigh'd — " die, generous Exile, die !" 
 
 I will not ask sad Pity to deplore 
 His wayward errors, who thus early died : 
 Still less, Childe Harold — now, thou art no more, 
 Will I speak aught of genius misapplied, 
 Or the past shadows of thy spleen or pride; 
 But I will bid the' Arcadian cypress wave. 
 And pluck the laurel from Peneus' side. 
 And pray thy Spirit may such quiet have. 
 That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er ihy 
 grave. 
 
 So ENDS Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage! 
 Ends in that region — in that land renown'd. 
 Whose mighty genius lives in Giorj-'s page, 
 f pon the Muses's consecrated ground,
 
 CHILDE HAROLDS LAST PILGRIMAGE. 131 
 
 Ilis pale cheek fading, where his brows were bound 
 With their unfading wreath ! I will not call 
 The Nymphs* from Pindus' piny shades profound, 
 But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall, 
 And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral. 
 
 Slow move the plumed hearse — the mourning train — 
 I mark the long procession with a sigh. 
 Silently passing to that village fane, 
 Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie; 
 Where sleeps that Mother, who with tearful eye, 
 Pondering the fortunes of tiiine onward road, 
 Hung o'er the slumbers of thy infancy : 
 Who here, released from every human load. 
 Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode. 
 
 Bursting Death's silence, could that Mother speak 
 When first the earth was heap'd upon tiiy head, 
 In thrilling, but with hollow accents weak, 
 She thus might give the welcome of the Dead — 
 " Rest! rest! the Passions which the heart misled, 
 Here, all are hush'd : the murmur of Life's Sea 
 Here is not heard : Come, to my wormy bed ! 
 When both shall wake — Father, rememder me! 
 And, Oh I my Son, my Son — have mercy ufo\ 
 Thj.e!" 
 
 • Who tlotji uot invdlnutaiily repeat tlit Ix-aiitifiil and affectlnx 
 line* from the fir»t Idyll of 1 h(-ortitii<<, on tin- dralh of Daphnix, 
 when he thinks of the death of Lord Byron in Greece: 
 
 nS T5«' if' >»9"3' Sua Aa<J>v»; hamtio, ira Tsxa, No/.uJ>«.
 
 132 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 We met but in one giddy dance ; 
 
 Goodnight join'd hands with greeting ; 
 And twenty thousand things may chance, 
 
 Before our second meeting : 
 For oh, I have been often told 
 
 That all the world grows older. 
 And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold, 
 
 To-morrow must be colder ! 
 
 If I have never touched the string. 
 
 Beneath your window, dear one, 
 And never said a civil thing. 
 
 When you were by to hear one, — 
 If I have made no rhymes about 
 
 Tliose looks which conquer stoics, 
 And heard those angel tones, without 
 
 One fit of fair heroics, — 
 
 Yet do not, though the world's cold school 
 
 Some bitter truths has taught me, 
 Oh, do not think me quite the fool 
 
 Which kinder friends have thought me ; 
 There is one charm I still could feel. 
 
 If no one laugh'd at feeling, — 
 One dream my lute could still reveal, 
 
 If it were worth revealing ! 
 
 But Folly little recks what name 
 
 Of friend or foe she handles, 
 When Merriment directs the game, 
 
 Aud Midnight dims the candles; 
 I know that Folly's breath is weak, 
 
 And scarcely stirs a feather, 
 But yet I will not have her speak 
 Your Dame and mine together .'
 
 STANZAS. 133 
 
 Farewell ! — Oh, life is dark and light, 
 
 Half rapture and half sorrow; 
 ]\Iy heart is ver\' full to-night, 
 
 jNly cup shall be, to-morrow ; 
 But they shall never know from me 
 
 On any one condition, 
 Whose healtli makes bright my burgundy, 
 
 Whose beauty was my vision. 
 
 REPROACH ME NOT. 
 
 Oh ! gentle shade, — reproach me not, 
 
 For hours of mirth too late gone by ! 
 Thy loveliness is ne'er forgot 
 
 However wild the revelry. 
 For o'er the silent goblet, thou 
 
 Art still remember'd, — and a cloud 
 Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow ; 
 
 And I am lone, while all are loud. 
 
 Reproach me not, — Reproach me not 
 
 For mingling in the noisy scene ! 
 Mine is indeed a gloomy lot, 
 
 To think on joys which but have been ; 
 To meditate on woes, which yet 
 
 Must haunt my life, and speed my fall ! 
 Some minds would stmggle to forget, 
 
 Rut mine would fain remember all ! 
 
 I think on thee, — I think and sigh, — 
 
 Though Uioughts are sad, and sighs are vam ! 
 
 There's something in thy memory, 
 Tliat gives a loveliness to pain ;
 
 134 REPROACH ME NOT. 
 
 But yet, ah ! gentle saint, forgive 
 
 The fauhs this wretched breast hath known ! 
 Had fate allow'd thee but to live, 
 
 Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shown. 
 
 Thy friends are fading from my sight. 
 
 But from my mind they ne'er depart ; 
 They leave behind them in their flight, 
 
 Their images upon my heart; — 
 And better 'twere that all should go 
 
 From this dark world, — since thou art gone ! 
 I need no friend to share my woe ! — 
 
 I love to weep apart, — alone. 
 
 Thy picture ! It is life, — health, — love, — 
 
 To gaze upon that eye, — that cheek, — 
 Those lips which even in fancy move — 
 
 Which fancy teaches even to speak. 
 Oh ! I have hung so long at night, 
 
 O'er thy still 'semblance, charm'd from pain, 
 That I have thought the living light 
 
 Came beaming from those eyes again ! 
 
 In my dark heart thy image glow^s. 
 
 In shape and light divinely fair ; — 
 Youth sketch'd the form, when free from woes. 
 
 And faithful memory placed it there. 
 In revelry 'lis still with me ; — 
 
 In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, — 
 My heart beats still the same to thee : — 
 
 Reproach me not! — Reproach me not!
 
 135 
 
 AN ITALIAN BOAT SONG. 
 
 BY E. L. BULWER. 
 
 The moon shines bright, 
 
 And the bark bounds light, 
 
 As the stag bounds over the lea ; 
 
 We love the strife 
 
 Of the sailor's life, 
 
 And we love our dark blue sea. 
 
 Now high, now low, 
 
 To the depths we go, 
 
 Now rise on the surge again ; 
 
 We make a track 
 
 O'er the ocean's back. 
 
 And play witli his hoary mane. 
 
 Fearless we face 
 
 The storm in its chase, 
 
 When the dark clouds fly before it ; 
 
 And meet the shock 
 
 Of the fierce siroc. 
 
 Though death breathes hotly o'er it. 
 
 Tlie landsman may quail 
 At the shout of the gale, 
 Peril's the sailor's joy ; 
 ^^ ild as the waves 
 \N Inch his vessel braves. 
 Is the lot of the sailor boy.
 
 136 
 
 THE BRIDAL DIRGE. 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 The bride is dead ! Tiie bride is dead 
 Cold and frail, and fair she lieih : 
 
 Wrapp'd is she in sullen lead ; 
 
 And a flower is at her head ; 
 
 And the breeze above her sigheth, 
 
 Thorough night and thorough day, 
 
 " Fled away ! — Fled away !" 
 
 Once, — but what can that avail, — 
 Once, she wore within her bosom 
 Pity, which did never fail, 
 A hue that dash'd the lily pale ; 
 
 And upon her cheek a blossom 
 Such as yet was never known : 
 — All is past and overthrown ! 
 
 Mourn ! the sweetest bride is dead, 
 And her knight is sick with sorrow, 
 
 That her bloom is ' lapp'd in lead :' 
 
 Yet he hopeth, fancy-fed, 
 
 He may kiss his love to-morrow. 
 
 But the breezes — what say they ? 
 
 — " Fled away ! Fled away !"
 
 137 
 
 TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL. 
 
 BY T. K. UERVEY. 
 
 The same — and oh ! how beautiful ! — the same 
 As memory meets thee through the mist of years !^ 
 Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame 
 Lighting an eye unchanged in all — but tears ! 
 Upon thy sever'd lips the very smile 
 Remember'd well, the sunlight of my youth ; 
 But gone the shadow that would steal, the while. 
 To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth ! — 
 < )nce more I see tliee, as I saw thee last, 
 The lost restored,— the vision of the past! 
 
 How like to what thou wert — and art not now ! 
 
 Yet oil, how more resembling what thou art ; 
 
 There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow, 
 
 As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart; 
 
 Gone where its very wishes are at rest, 
 
 And all its throbbings husli'd, and achings heal'd ; — 
 
 I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast, 
 
 In thine immortal loveliness, reveal'd ; 
 
 And see thee, as in some permitted dream, 
 
 Tliere where thou art what here thou dost but stem ! 
 
 I loved thee passing well ; — thou wert a l>eam 
 
 Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea, 
 
 With just so much of mirth as might redeem 
 
 Man from the musings of his miser)' ; 
 
 Yet ever pensive, — like a thing from home ! 
 
 Ixjvely and lonely as a single star ! 
 
 But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come 
 
 From thine own element — so very far. 
 
 Only to be a cynosure to eyes 
 
 Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies !
 
 138 TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL. 
 
 It were a crime to weep ! — 'tis none to kneel, 
 As now I kneel, before this type of thee, 
 And worship her, who taught my soul to feel 
 Such worship is no vain idolatry : — 
 Thou wert my spirit's spirit — and thou art, 
 Though this be all of thee time hath not reft. 
 Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart, 
 Like wither'd leaves that many storms have left ; 
 I turn from living looks — the cold, the dull. 
 To any trace of thee — the lost, the beautiful ! 
 
 Broken, and bow'd, and wasted with regret, 
 I gaze and weep — why do I weep alone ! 
 I would not — would not if I could — forget. 
 But I am all remembrance — it hath grown 
 My very being ! — Will she never speak ? 
 The lips are parted, and the braided hair 
 Seem'd as it waved upon her brightening cheek. 
 And smile, and every thing — but breath — are there ! 
 Oh, for the voice that I have stay'd to hear, 
 Only in dreams, — so many a lonely year ! 
 
 It will not be ; — away, bright cheat, away ! 
 Cold, far too cold to love ! — thy look grows strange; 
 I want the thousand thoughts that used to play, 
 Like lights and shadowings, in chequer'd change : 
 That smile I — I know thou art not like her now, — 
 Within her land — where'er it be — of light, 
 She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow : — 
 When will it pass away — this heavy night ! 
 Oh ! will the cool, clear morning never come. 
 And light me to her, in her spirit's home !
 
 139 
 
 THE LAUNCH OF THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 BV TUE REV. E. DARNARD. 
 
 U p with thy thin transparent sail, 
 
 Thou tiny mariner ! — The gale 
 
 Comes gently from the land, and brings 
 
 The odour of all lovely tilings 
 
 That Zephyr, in his wanton play, 
 
 Scatters in Spring's triumphant way; — 
 
 Of primrose pale, and violet. 
 
 And young anemone, beset 
 
 By thousand spikes of every hue, 
 
 Purple and scarlet, white and blue : 
 
 And every breeze that sweeps the earth 
 
 Brings the sweet sounds of love and mirth ; 
 
 The shrilly pipe of things unseen 
 
 Tliat pitter in the meadows green ; 
 
 The linnet's love-sick melody, 
 
 The laverock's carol loud and iiigh ; 
 
 And mellow'd, as from distance borne, 
 
 The music of the sheplierd's horn. 
 
 Up, little Nautilus !— Tliy day 
 Of life and joy is come : — away ! 
 The ocean's Hood, that gleams so bright 
 Beneath the morning's ruddy light. 
 With gentlest sur^c scarce rij)ples o'er 
 The lucid gems that pave the shore ; 
 Each billow wears its little spray, 
 As maids wear wreaths on holiday ; 
 And maid ne'er danced on velvet green 
 INIore blithely round the May's young queen, 
 Than thou shalt dance o'er yon bright sea 
 That wooes thy prow so lovingly. 
 Then lift thy sail ! — 'Tis shame to rest, 
 Here on the sand, thy pearly breast.
 
 140 THE LAUNCH OF THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 Away ! thou first of mariners ; — 
 
 Give to the wind all idle fears ; 
 
 Thy freight demands no jealous care, — 
 
 Yet navies might be proud to bear 
 
 The wondrous wealth, the' unbought spell. 
 
 That load thy ruby-cinctured shell. 
 
 A heart is there to nature true, 
 
 Which wrath nor envy ever knew, — 
 
 A heart that calls no creature foe, 
 
 And ne'er design'd another's woe ; — 
 
 A heart whose joy o'erflows its home. 
 
 Simply because sweet spring is come. 
 
 Up, beauteous Nautilus ! — Away ! 
 
 The idle muse that chides thy stay 
 
 Shall watch thee long, with anxious eye. 
 
 O'er thy bright course delighted fly; 
 
 And, when black storms deform the main. 
 
 Cry welcome to the sands again! 
 
 Heaven grant, that she through life's wild sea 
 
 May sail as innocent as thee ; 
 
 And, homeward turn'd like thee may find 
 
 Sure refuge from the wave and wind. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEDDED. 
 
 BY THE REV. J. MOULTRIE. 
 
 I SAW thee wedded : — thou didst go 
 
 Within the sacred aisle ; 
 Thy young cheek in a blushing glow. 
 
 Betwixt a tear and smile. 
 Thy heart was glad in maiden glee j 
 But he it loved so fervently 
 
 Was faithless all the while : 
 I hate him for the vow he spoke — 
 I hate him for the vow he broke !
 
 I SAW THEE WEDDED. 141 
 
 I hid the love that could not die — 
 Its doubts, and hopes, and fears ; 
 
 And buried all my misery 
 In secrecy and tears. 
 
 And days pass'd on — and thou didst prove 
 
 The pangs of unref4uited love, 
 Even in thy early years : 
 
 And thou didst die — so fair and good — 
 
 In silence and in solitude. 
 
 While thou wert living I did hide 
 
 Affliction's secret pains; 
 I'd not have shock'd thy modest pride 
 
 For all the world contains : 
 But thou hast perish'd ; and the fire, 
 That, often check'd, could ne'er expire, 
 
 Again unbidden reigns ; — 
 It is no crime to speak my vow. 
 For, ah ! thou canst not hear it now. 
 
 Thou sleep'st beneath thy lowly stone 
 
 That dark and dreamless sleep; 
 And he, thy loved and chosen one, 
 
 Why goes he not to weep ? 
 lie does not kneel where I have knell; 
 He cannot feel what I have felt — 
 
 The anguish still and deep — 
 The painful thoughts of what has been — 
 The canker worm that is not seen. 
 
 But I, as o'er the dark blue wave 
 
 Unconsciously I ride, 
 My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave. 
 
 My soul is by thy side. 
 There is one voice that wails thee yet — 
 One heart that cannot e'er forget 
 
 The visions that have died : 
 And aye thy form is buried there — 
 A doubt — an anguish — a despair!
 
 142 
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, 
 Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you, 
 
 For ye waft me to summers of old, 
 ^^^len the earth teem*d around me with fairy delight, 
 And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, 
 
 Like treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 I love you for lulling me back into dreams 
 
 Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams. 
 
 And of broken blades breathing their balm ; 
 While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, 
 And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, 
 
 Made music that sweeten'd the calm. 
 
 Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
 
 Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June ; 
 
 Of old ruinous castles ye tell: 
 I thought it delightful your beauties to find 
 When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, 
 
 And your blossoms were part of her spell. 
 
 Even now what aff'ections the violet awakes ; 
 What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes, 
 
 Can the wild water-lily restore. 
 Wliat landscapes I read in the primrose's looks ; 
 What pictures of pebbles and minno^^y brooks, 
 
 In the vetches that tangle the shore. 
 
 Earth's cultureless buds ! to my heart ye were dear 
 Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear. 
 
 Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
 Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, 
 With the visions of youth to revisit my age. 
 
 And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 
 
 i
 
 148 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. 
 
 (), BREATHE DO more that simple air, — 
 Though soft and sweet thy wild notes swell, 
 To me the only tale they tell 
 
 Is cold despair! — 
 I heard it once from lips as fair, 
 I heard it in as sweet a tone, — 
 Now I am left on earth alone, 
 
 And she is — where ? 
 
 How have those well-known sounds renew'd 
 The dreams of earlier, happier hours, 
 When life — a desert now — was strew'd 
 
 With fairy Howers! — 
 Then all was bright, and fond, and fair, — 
 Now flowers are faded, joys are fled. 
 And heart and hope are with tlie dead. 
 
 For she is — where ? 
 
 Can I then love the air she loved ? 
 Can I then hear the melting strain 
 Which brings her to my soul again, 
 
 Calm and unmoved ? — 
 And thou to blamu my tears forbear ; 
 Tor while I list, sweet maid ! to thee,j 
 Ilemembrance whispers, " such was she," — 
 
 And she is — where f
 
 144 
 
 FLODDEN FIELD. 
 
 BY DELTA. 
 
 'TwAS on a sultrj' summer noon, 
 
 The sky \vas blue, the breeze was still, 
 
 And Nature with the robes of June 
 
 Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill, — 
 
 As rode we slowly o'er the plain, 
 
 'Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain ; 
 
 The leaves on every bough seem'd sleeping, 
 And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth. 
 So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth 
 
 A jubilee was keeping ! 
 
 And canst thou be, unto my soul 
 
 I said, that dread Northumbrian field. 
 
 Where war's terrific thunder roll 
 
 Above two banded kingdoms peal'd ? 
 
 From out the forest of his spears 
 
 Ardent imagination hears 
 
 The crash of Surrey's onward charging; 
 While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam 
 Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream. 
 
 Like Solway's tide enlarging. 
 
 Hark to the turmoil and the shout. 
 The war-cry, and the cannon's boom 1 
 
 Behold the stiiiggle and the rout. 
 
 The broken lance and draggled plume ! 
 
 Borne to the earth, with deadly force, 
 
 Comes down the horseman and his horse ; 
 
 Round boils the battle like an ocean, 
 While stripling blithe and veteran stern 
 Pour forth their lifeblood on the fern, 
 
 Amid its fierce commotion !
 
 I LODDEN FlF.Ln. 145 
 
 Mown down like swathes of summer flowers, 
 
 Yes ! on llie cold earth there they lie, 
 The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers, 
 
 The chosen of her chivalry ! 
 C'omminpjled with the vulgar dead, 
 Perhaps lies many a mitred head ; 
 And thou, the vanguard onwards leadinp:, 
 
 Who left the sceptre for the sword, 
 
 For battle-field the festal board, 
 Liest low amid the bleeding ! 
 
 Yes ! here thy life-star knew decline, 
 Though hope, that strove to be deceived, 
 
 Shaped thy lone course to Palestine, 
 And what it wish'd full oft believed : — 
 
 An unhewn pillar on the plain 
 
 Marks out the spot where thou wast slain ; 
 
 There j)ondering as I stood, and gazing 
 On its gray top, the linnet sang, 
 And, o'er the slopes where conflict ran.:. 
 
 The quiet sheep were grazing. 
 
 And were the nameless dead unsung, 
 
 The patriot and the peasant train, 
 Who like a phalanx round thei; clung. 
 
 To find but death on Klodden Plain ? 
 No ! many a mother's nielting lay 
 Mouni'd o'er the bright (lowers «•<(/<' away ; 
 And many a maid, with tears of sorrow. 
 
 Whose locks no more were seen to wavr, 
 
 ^^ ept for the beauteous and the brave. 
 Who came not on the morrow !
 
 146 
 
 TO THE IVY. 
 
 BV MRS. HEM AN S. 
 
 Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee 
 
 In ancient days, the god of wine, 
 And bid thee at the banquet be 
 
 Companion of the vine ? 
 Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound 
 
 Of revelry hath long been o'er; 
 Where song's full notes once peal'd around, 
 
 But now are heard no more ! 
 
 The Roman, on his battle-plains, 
 
 Where kings before his eagles bent. 
 Entwined thee with exulting strains, 
 
 Around the victor's tent ; 
 Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green, 
 
 Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
 Better thou lovest the silent scene, 
 
 Around the Victor's grave. 
 
 Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 
 
 The bards and heroes of the past; — 
 Where through the halls of glory gone 
 
 ^Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
 Where years are hastening to efface 
 
 Each record of the grand and fair; — 
 Thou, in thy solitary grace, 
 
 Wreath of the tomb ! art there. 
 
 Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods, 
 
 On classic plains dost mantling spread. 
 And veil the desolate abodes 
 
 And cities of the dead ; 
 Deserted palaces of kings, — 
 
 Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown, — 
 And all once-glorious earthly things, 
 
 At length are thine alone.
 
 TO THE IVY. 147 
 
 Oh ! many a temple, once sublime 
 
 Beneath a blue, Italian sky, 
 Hath nought of beauty left by time, 
 
 Save thy wild tapestry ! 
 And rear'd midst crags and clouds 'tis thine 
 
 To wave where banners waved of yore, 
 O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine 
 
 Cresting the rocky shore. 
 
 High from the fields of air, look down. 
 
 Those eyries of a vanish'd race. 
 Homes of the mighty, whose renown 
 
 Hatli pass'd, and left no trace ; 
 But thou art there ! — Thy foliage bright, 
 
 Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave, — 
 Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 
 
 And deck the humblest grave. 
 
 The breathing forms of Parian stone. 
 
 That rise round grandeur's marble halls, 
 The vivid hues by painting thrown, 
 
 Rich o'er the glowing walls, — 
 The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes. 
 
 In sculptured beauty waving fair; — 
 These, perish all — and what remains ? 
 
 Thou — thou alone art there ! 
 
 Tis still the same — where'er we tread, 
 
 The wrecks of human ])Ower we see ; 
 The mar\els of all ages Hed, 
 
 Left to Decay and thee ! 
 And still let man his fabrics rear, — 
 
 Autrust in beauty, grace, and strength, — 
 Days pass, thou Ivy never sere, 
 
 Ancl all is thine at length.
 
 148 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY THE REV. J. WOLFE. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 Tlrat thou couldst mortal be : 
 It never through my mind had past, 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er, 
 That I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more ! 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook. 
 
 That I must look in vain ! 
 But when I speak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid. 
 And now I feel, as well I may, 
 
 Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 
 
 If thou would'st stay even as thou art, 
 
 All cold, and all serene, 
 I still might press thy silent heart. 
 
 And where thy smiles have been ! 
 While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have. 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own. 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave — 
 
 And I am now alone ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I perhaps may soothe this heart, 
 
 In thinking too of thee : 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, 
 As fancy never could have drawn. 
 
 And never can restore !
 
 14Q 
 
 MY BIllTIlUAY. 
 
 BY N, V. WII.LI-^, ESQ. 
 
 My birthday ! As tl>e day comes ruund. 
 
 Less and less white its mark appears.— MoORE. 
 
 I'm twenty-two; — I'm twenty-two, — tlicy gaily give 
 
 me joy, 
 As if I should be glad to hear that I was less a boy ; 
 They do not know how carelessly their words have 
 
 given pain 
 To one, whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again ! 
 
 A change has o'er my spirit pass'd, my mirthful hours 
 
 are few, 
 'i'he ligljt is all departed now my early feelings knew ; 
 i used to love the morning gray, the twilight's quiet 
 
 deep. 
 Hut now, like shadows on the sea, upon my thoughts 
 
 they creep. 
 
 And love was as a holy star when this brief year was 
 
 young. 
 And my whole worship of the sky on one swett my 
 
 was flung; 
 Hut worldly things have come between, and shut ii 
 
 from my sight, 
 And thoui^h that star shines purely yet, I mourn it- 
 
 hidden light ! 
 
 And fame! — 1 bent to it my knee, and bow'd to it m> 
 
 brow, 
 And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now ;
 
 150 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 But when I pray'd for fire from Heaven to touch the 
 
 soul, I bow'd, 
 1 little thought the lightning flash would come in such 
 
 a cloud. 
 
 Ye give me joy! Is it because another year has fled ? 
 
 That I am farther from my youth, and nearer to the 
 dead ? — 
 
 Is it that manhood's cares are come, — my happy boy- 
 hood o'er, — 
 
 Because the visions I have loved, will visit me no more ! 
 
 Oh wherefore give me joy, when I can smile no wel- 
 come back ? 
 
 I've found no flower, and seen no light, on manhood's 
 weary track : 
 
 My love is deep — ambition d eep — and heart and mind 
 will on. 
 
 But love is fainting by the way, and fame consumes 
 ere won ! 
 
 Philadelphia, May 2, 1829. 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY, 
 
 Apollo has peep'd through the shutter. 
 
 And waken'd the witty and fair ; 
 The boarding school belle's in a flutter, 
 
 The twopenny post's in despair ; 
 The breath of the morning is flinging 
 
 A magic on blossom, on spray ; 
 And cockneys and sparrows are singing 
 
 In chorus on Valentine's day.
 
 SONG FOR VALENTINE S DAY. 151 
 
 Away with ye, dreams of disaster, 
 
 Away with ye, visions of law, 
 Of cases I never shall master, 
 
 Of pleadings I never shall draw: 
 Away with ye, parchments and papers, 
 
 Red tapes, unread volumes, away; 
 It gives a fond lover the vapours 
 
 To see you on \'alentine's day. 
 
 I'll sit in my nightcap, like Ilayley, 
 
 I'll sit with my arms cross'd, like Spain, 
 Till joys, which are vanishing daily, 
 
 Come back in their lustre again : 
 Oh shall I look over the waters. 
 
 Or shall I look over the way, 
 For the brightest and best of earth's daughters, 
 
 To rhyme to on X'alentine's day ? 
 
 Shall I crown with my worship, for fame's sake, 
 
 Some goddess wliom fashion has starr'd ; 
 Make puns on IMiss Love and her namesake. 
 
 Or pray for a pas with Brocard ? 
 Shall I flirt, in romantic idea. 
 
 With Chester's adorable clay, 
 Or whisper in transport — " Si mea 
 
 Cum X'estris — " on \'alentine's day? 
 
 Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia, 
 
 Whom no one e'er saw or may see, 
 A fancy-drawn I^aura Amelia, 
 
 An fid lihit. Anna ISlarie ? 
 Shall I court an initial with stars to it, 
 
 Cio mad for a G. or a J., 
 (n\ Bishop to ])ut a few bars to it, 
 
 And print it on V^alentine's day ?
 
 lo2 SOKG FOR valentine's DAY. 
 
 Alas ! ere I'm properly frantic 
 
 With some such pure figment as this,. 
 Some visions, not quite so romantic, 
 
 Start up to demolish the bliss ; 
 Some Will o' the Wisp in a bonnet 
 
 Still leads my lost senses astray. 
 Till up to my ears in a sonnet 
 
 I sink, upon \'alentine's day. 
 
 The Dian I half bought a ring for, 
 
 On seeing her thrown in the ring; — 
 The Naiad I took such a spring for. 
 
 From Waterloo Bridge in the spring ; — 
 The trembler I saved from a robber, on 
 
 My walk to the Champs Elysee ! 
 The warbler that fainted at Oberon, 
 
 Three months before Valentine's day. 
 
 The gipsy I once had a spill with. 
 
 Bad luck to the Paddington team ! — 
 The countess I chanced to be ill with 
 
 From Dover to Calais by steam ; — 
 The lass that makes tea for Sir Stephen, 
 
 The lassie that brings in the tray; — 
 It's odd, — but the betting is even 
 
 Between them on Valentine's day. 
 
 The white hands I help'd in their nutting ; 
 The fair neck I cloak'd in the rain ; 
 
 The bright eyes that thank'd me for cutting 
 My friend in Emanuel lane ; 
 
 The IBlue that admires Mr. Barrow; 
 The Saint diat adores Lewis Way ; 
 
 The Nameless that dated from Harrow- 
 Three couplets last \'alentine's day.
 
 SONG FOR VALENTINE S DAY. 153 
 
 I think not of Laura the witty, 
 
 For, oh ! she is married at York ! — 
 I sigh not for Rose of the city, 
 
 For, ah ! she is buried at Cork ! — 
 Adele has a braver and better, 
 
 To say what I never could say ; 
 Louise cannot construe a letter 
 
 Of English on \'alentine's day. 
 
 So perish the leaves in the arbour, 
 
 The tree is all bare in the blast ! 
 Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour, 
 
 I come to the lady at last : 
 Where art thou so lovely and lonely, 
 
 Though idle the lute and the lay, 
 The lute and the lay are thine only, 
 
 My fairest, on N'alentine's day. 
 
 For thee I have open'd my Blackstone, 
 
 For thee I have shut up myself, 
 Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton, 
 
 And laid my short whist on the shelf; 
 For thee I have sold my old Sherry, 
 
 For thee I have bunj'd my new play, 
 And I grow philosophical — very ! — 
 
 Except upon X'aleniine's day. 
 
 h2
 
 154 
 
 THE SHIP. 
 
 BY JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 II LR mighty sails the breezes swell, 
 
 And fast she leaves the lessening land, 
 And from the shore the last farewell 
 
 Is waved by many a snowy hand ; 
 And weeping eyes are on the main, 
 
 Until its verge she wanders o'er ; 
 But, from that hour of parting pain. 
 
 Oh ! she was never heard of more ! 
 
 In her was many a mother's joy, 
 
 And love of many a weeping fair ; 
 For her was wafted, in its sigh. 
 
 The lonely heart's unceasing prayer ; 
 And oh ! the thousand hopes untold 
 
 Of ardent youth, that vessel bore ; 
 Say, were they qvienched in ocean cold. 
 
 For she was never heard of more ? 
 
 Wiien on her wide and trackless path 
 
 Of desolation, doom'd to flee, 
 Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath 
 
 Of racking cloud and rolling sea? 
 Or, where the land but mocks the eye. 
 
 Went drifting on a fatal shore? 
 \ ain guesses all ! — Her destiny 
 
 Is dark : — she ne'er was heard of more. 
 
 The moon hath twelve times changed her form. 
 
 From glowing orb to crescent wan ; 
 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, 
 
 Since from her port tliat ship hath gone ; 
 But ocean keeps its secret well ; 
 
 And though we know that all is o'er, 
 No eye hath seen — no tongue can tell 
 
 Her fate : — she ne'er was heard of more !
 
 153 
 
 HOUSEHOLD HOURS. 
 
 BY SUMNER L. I AIUFILLD. 
 
 Howk'lu the sceptic scoffs, tlie poet sighs, 
 Hope oft reveals her dimly shudow'd dreams, 
 And seraph joy descends from pale blue skies. 
 And, like sweet sunset on wood-skirted streams, 
 Peace breathes around her stilling harmonies, 
 Her whisper'd music — whilst her soft eye beams — 
 And the deep bliss, that crowns the household hearth, 
 From all its woes redeems the bleeding earth. 
 
 Like woods that shadow the blue mountain sky, 
 The troubled heart will seek its home in heaven, 
 In those affections which can never die. 
 In hallow'd love and human wrongs forgiven ! 
 From the fair gardens of the blest on high 
 The fruit of life is yet to lost man given, 
 And 'mid the quiet of his still abode 
 Spirits attend him from the throne of God. 
 
 The mild deep gentleness, the smile that throw ^ 
 Light from the bosom o'er the high pale brow, 
 And cheek that Hushes like tlu; May-morti rose ; 
 The all-reposing sympathies, that t,dow 
 Like violets in the heart, and o'er f)ur woes 
 Tlu' silent breathing of their beauty throw — 
 Oh ! ever}' deed of daily life doth prove 
 The depth, the strength, the truth of woman's love. 
 
 When harvest days are past, and autumn skies 
 The giant forests tinge with glorious hues. 
 How o'er the twili,;ht of our thought swcel eyes 
 T)je fairy beauty of the soul diffuse 1
 
 156 HOUSEHOLD HOURS. ' 
 
 The inspiring air, like spirit voices, sighs 
 
 'Mid the close pines and solitary yews, 
 
 Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere, 
 
 And naked woodlands wail the dying year. 
 
 Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom, 
 Though thoughtful sadness sighs her evening hymn, 
 For hearth-fires now light up the curtain'd room, 
 And love's wings float amid the twilight dim; 
 Lost loved ones gather round us from the tomb. 
 And blest revealments o'er our spirits swim. 
 And hopes, that droop'd in trials, soar on high, 
 And link'd affections bear into the sky. 
 
 Then, side by side, hearts, wedded in their youth, 
 In their meek blessedness expand and glow. 
 And, though the w^orld be faithless, still their truth 
 No pause, no change, no soil of time may know ! 
 They hold communion with the world, in sooth, 
 Beyond the stain of sin, the waste of woe, 
 And the deep sanctities of well spent hours 
 Crown their fair fame with Eden's deathless flowers. 
 
 Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame, 
 Brief as the sunlight of an April morn ; 
 But love perpetuates the sacred name 
 Devoted to his shrine ; in glory born. 
 The boy-god gladly to the lone earth came 
 To vanquish victors and to smile at scorn, 
 And he will rise when all is finish'd here, 
 The holiest seraph of the highest sphere. 
 
 As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time, 
 On the meek heir of Israel's sainted sage, 
 Woman ! so falls thy unseen power sublime 
 On the lone desert of man's pilgrimage ;
 
 HOUSEHOLD HOURS. 157 
 
 Thy sweet thoughts breathe, from love's delicious 
 
 clime, 
 Beauty in youth, and faith in fading age ; 
 Through all earth's years of travail, strife, and toil, 
 I lis parch'd affections linger round thy smile. 
 
 In the young beauty of thy womanhood 
 Thou livest in the being yet to be, 
 Yearning for blessedness ill understood, 
 And known, young mother ! only unto thee. 
 Love is her life ; and to the wise and good 
 Her heart is Heaven — 'tis even unto me. 
 Though oft misguided and betray 'd and grieved. 
 The only bliss of which I'm not bereaved. 
 
 Draw near, ye whom my bosom hath enshrined ! 
 < ) Thou ! who.se life breathes in my heart ! and Thou 
 XVhose gentle spirit dwelleth in my mind. 
 Whose love, like sunlight, rests upon thy brow ! 
 Draw near the hearth ! the cold and moaning wind 
 Scullers the ruins of the forest now, 
 But blessings crown us in our own still home — 
 Hail, holy image of the life to come. 
 
 Hail, ye fair charities ! the mellow showers 
 Of the earth's spring-time! from your rosy breatli 
 The way-worn pilj^rim, through the tempest lours. 
 Breathes a new being in the realm of drath, 
 And bears the burden of life's darker hours 
 With cheerlier a.spect o'er the lonely heath, 
 That spreads between us and the unfadijitr cliin« 
 W here true love triumphs o'er the death of Tinit .
 
 15R 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 BY MISS JEWSBURY. 
 
 (Jne evening as the Sun went down, 
 Gilding the mountains bare and brown, 
 
 I wander'd on the shore ; 
 And such a blaze o'er ocean spread, 
 And beauty on the meek earth shed, 
 
 I never saw before ! 
 
 I was not lonely ; — dwellings fair 
 
 Were scatter'd round and shining there ;- 
 
 Gay groups were on the green 
 Of children, wild with reckless glee, 
 And parents, that could childlike be 
 
 With them and in that scene. 
 
 And on the sea, that look'd of gold, 
 Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold 
 
 Glided, and yet seem'd still; 
 While sounds rose in the quiet air, 
 That mingling made sweet music there. 
 
 Surpassing minstrel's skill ! — 
 
 The breezy murmur from the shore, — 
 Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er. 
 
 Alike by sire and child, — 
 The whistle shrill, — the broken song, — 
 The far off flute-notes lingering long, — 
 
 The lark's strain rich and wild. 
 
 I look'd, I listen'd, — and the spell 
 Of Music and of Beauty fell
 
 WRITTKX BV THE SEASIDE. lo9 
 
 So radiant on my heart, 
 That scarcely durst I really deem 
 \N hat yet I would not own a drean), 
 
 Lest dream-like, it depart. 
 
 'Twas sunset in the world around ; — 
 And, looking inwards, so I found 
 
 'Twas sunset in the soul ; 
 Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there, 
 But musings sweet, and visions fair, 
 
 In placid beauty stole. 
 
 liut moods like tliese, the human mind, 
 Though seeking oft, may seldom find, 
 
 Or, finding, force to stay ; — 
 As dews upon the drooping flower. 
 That having shown their little hour. 
 
 Dry up — or fall away. 
 
 But though hU pleasures take their flight, 
 Yet some will leave memorials bright 
 
 For many an after year; 
 This sunset, that dull niglit will shade, — 
 These visions, which must rpiickly fade. 
 Will half-immortal memory l>r;iid 
 
 Tor me, when fir from here!
 
 160 
 
 THE NORTHERN STAR. 
 
 WRITTEV AT TVN'EMOt'TH, NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 < The Northern Star 
 Sailed o'er the Bar, 
 
 Bound to the Baltic Sea : 
 In the morning gray 
 She stretched away — 
 
 'Tvvas a weary day to me. 
 
 ' And many an hour, 
 In sleet and shower, 
 
 By the lighthouse rock I stray. 
 And watch till dark 
 For the winged bark 
 
 Of him that's far away. 
 
 ' The Churchyard's bound 
 I wander round, 
 
 Among the grassy graves ; 
 But all I hear 
 Is the North wind drear, 
 
 And all I see, the waves !' 
 
 Oh roam not there. 
 Thou mourner foir, 
 
 Nor pour the fruitless tear ! 
 Thy plaint of woe 
 Is all too low — 
 
 The dead, they cannot hear. 
 
 The Northern Star ;' 
 
 Is set afar, \ 
 
 Set in the raging sea ; |L 
 
 And the billows spread » 
 O'er the sandy bed. 
 
 That holds thy love from thee !
 
 161 
 
 THE GIRL AND THE HAWK. 
 
 mOM A I'ICTURE BY NEWTON. 
 BY AIAUIC A. WATTS. 
 
 Gracefll '* Phantom of delight!" 
 Glorious type of beauty briglu ! 
 Such as haunts the poet's vision, 
 When his dreams are all elysian, — 
 When his musing fancy brings 
 Shadows of all lovely things ; 
 And famed Zeuxis' art excelling, 
 He hath form'd a second Helen, — 
 Wanting but the power of speech, — 
 Erom the glowing traits of each ! 
 
 But slie may not vie w ith thee ! — 
 There's a sweet simplicity 
 Elitting round thine open brow, 
 Sporting on thy rij)e lips now, 
 Alantling o'er thy maiden ciieek 
 (In hues tliat leave description weak), 
 With a brightness all too real 
 For a poet's beau ideal ! 
 
 Though an angel's ^race is thine. 
 Though the light is half divine, 
 That with chasten'd lustre tlashes 
 From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes; 
 Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair. 
 And that sweetly jjensive air, 
 Speak thee but of mortal birth, 
 An erring, witching child of earth ; 
 In each varied mood revealing 
 Human hope and human feeling.
 
 162 THE GIRL AND THE HAWK. 
 
 Gladsome now — now vow'd to sorrow- 
 Gay to-day, if sad to-morrow ! 
 
 Huntress fair, the sport is over, 
 Wherefore chain thy feather'd rover ? 
 Rich, indeed, the prize must be, 
 That can lure him far from thee ! 
 What to him are hood and jesses, 
 Tangled in thy glossy tresses ? 
 Dazzled by thy beauty's light. 
 Can he plume his wings for flight? 
 Fetter'd by a smile so bland, 
 Will he ever leave thy hand ? — 
 No, — let him on thy beauty feed. 
 And he'll no lirmer jesses need. 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 BY FITZ GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent. 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 
 Wlien Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power : 
 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring : 
 
 Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king; 
 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS. 163 
 
 True as ihe steel of iheir tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 
 Tliere had the glad earth drunk their blood 
 
 On old Plata?a's day ; 
 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 
 The sons of sires who conquer'd there. 
 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare. 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 An iiour pass'd on — the Turk awoke ; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 
 " To arms ! they come! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
 
 He woke — to die 'midst flame, and smoke, 
 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. 
 
 And death shots falling thick and fast 
 
 As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
 
 And heard witli voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 
 " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ; 
 
 Strike — for your altars and your hres; 
 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 God — and your native land !" 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 
 
 They })iled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
 
 They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell. 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 
 
 And the red field was won ; 
 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 
 
 Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
 
 I'or the first time, her firstborn's breath ; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals
 
 164 MAPCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 That close the pestilence are broke, 
 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm. 
 
 With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 
 
 And thou art terrible — the tear. 
 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
 
 And all we know^, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the batde for the free. 
 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 
 Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
 
 Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 
 
 Come in her crowning hour — and then 
 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prison'd men : 
 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 
 Of a brother in a foreign land ; 
 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
 
 And orange groves, and fields of balm. 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 
 A torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb ;
 
 MAnCO BOZZAUIS. 165 
 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 I/jng loved, and for a season gone ; 
 I'or thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Iler marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
 Tor thee she rings her birtiiday bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; 
 I'or thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
 Iler soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Ciives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years. 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears: 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 Tliough in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 The memory of her buried joys. 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 ^^'iIl, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
 ( )ne of the few, the immortal names, 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 TO THE POET \VOKU:SS\()KTn. 
 
 I5Y MRS. lir.MANS. 
 
 Thine is a strain to read amont; the hills. 
 The ol<I and full of voices; by the source 
 
 Of some free stre;im, whose j;hul(loning presence fill? 
 The solitude with soiuid ; for in its course 
 
 Facu such is thy deep song, that seems a |)arl 
 
 Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
 
 166 TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 
 
 To the calm breast, in some sweet garden's bowers, 
 Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, 
 
 And bud and bell with changes mark the hours ; 
 There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 
 Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 
 
 Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 
 
 When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their 
 birds, 
 
 There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
 As antique music, link'd with household words ; 
 
 While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move, 
 
 And the raised eye of childhood shine in love ! 
 
 Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
 Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 
 
 Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse 
 A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around. 
 
 From its own glow of hope, and courage hio-h, 
 
 And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 
 
 True bard and holy ! — Thou art even as one 
 
 Who by some secret gift of soul or eye, 
 In every spot beneath the smiling sun. 
 
 Sees where the springs of living waters lie! 
 Thou mov'§t through nature's realm, and touch'd by 
 
 thee, 
 Clear healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wan- 
 derer free.
 
 16T 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY 
 
 IN BELZOM'S EXHIBITION. 
 
 BY HORACE SMITU. 
 
 An u tliou hast walk'd about — how strange a story ! — 
 In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago ! 
 
 ^Vhen the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
 And Time had not begun to overthrow 
 
 Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 
 
 ( )f winch the very ruins are tremendous ! 
 
 Sj)eak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy ! 
 
 Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its tune ! 
 Thou'rt stiuidingon thy legs, above ground, Mummy ! 
 
 Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon ; 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
 But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 
 
 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, — 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ' 
 
 Was Cheops, or Cej)hrc''nes architect 
 Of either Pyramid that bears his name ! 
 
 Is Pompey's Pdlar really a misnomer? 
 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 
 
 P»:rhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden, 
 By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade; — 
 
 Then say, what secret melody w:ls hi(ld«;n 
 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a Priest — if so, my struggles 
 
 Arc vain, — for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
 
 168 ADDTIESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 
 
 Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat. 
 
 Hath hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass : 
 
 Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; 
 
 Or doff 'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass : 
 
 Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 
 A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 
 
 I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd. 
 Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled .' 
 
 For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd, 
 Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — 
 
 Antiquity appears to have begun 
 
 Long after thy primeval race was run. 
 
 Thou couldst develope, if that wither'd tongue 
 Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 
 
 How the world look'd when it was fresh and young. 
 And the great Deluge still had left it green ! — 
 
 Or was it then so old that Histor}''s pages 
 
 Contain 'd no record of its early ages ? 
 
 Still silent! Incommunicative elf! 
 
 Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
 But, prythee, tell us something of thyself, — 
 
 Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
 Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd, 
 What hast thou seen — what strange adventure- 
 number'd ? 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
 
 We have, above ground, seen some strange muta- 
 tions ; — 
 
 The Roman Empire has begun and ended ; 
 
 New worlds have risen, — we have lost old nations : 
 
 And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 
 
 While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
 
 ADDRESS TO AN EfJYPTIAN MIMMV. 169 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
 When the great Persian Conqueror, Canibyses, 
 
 March'd armies o'er thy tonil), with thundering tread, 
 O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
 
 And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, 
 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 
 
 If tlie tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, 
 The nature of thy private life unfold : — 
 
 A heart hath throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, 
 And tears adown that dusty cheek have roU'd. 
 
 Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd that 
 fiice? 
 
 What was thy name, and station, age, and race ? 
 
 Statue of flesh ! — Immortal of the dead ! 
 
 Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
 Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 
 
 And standest undecay'd within our presence. 
 Thou will hear nothing till the Judgment morning, 
 When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its 
 warning. 
 
 Why should this worthless tegument endure. 
 
 If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 
 O let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure 
 
 In living virtue, that when both must sever, 
 Althougli corruption may our fram«' consume, 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.
 
 170 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOrilY. 
 
 BY PERCY BYSHE SHELT.EY. 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river, 
 
 And the river with the ocean ; 
 The winds of heaven mLx for ever 
 
 Wiih a strange emotion : 
 IS'othing in the world is single ; 
 
 All things, by a law divine, 
 In one another's being mingle, — 
 
 Why not I with thine? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
 
 And the waves clasp one another ! 
 No leaf or tlower would be forgiven. 
 
 If it disdain'd to kiss its brother. 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea :- 
 What are all these kissings worth. 
 
 If thou kiss not me ? 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY T. HOOD. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember 
 The house where I was bom. 
 The little window, where the sun 
 Came peeping in, at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away !
 
 in 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Tl»e roses, red and white. 
 
 The violets, and the lily cups — 
 
 Tliose flowers made of light ; 
 
 Tlie lilacs, where the robins built. 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The labernum, on his birthday, — 
 
 Tin tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air would rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 — My spirit flew in feathers, then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And the summer pool could hardly cool 
 
 Tlie fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees, dark and high ; 
 
 I used to tljink their slender spires 
 
 Were close against the sky ! 
 
 It was a childi'ih ignorance, — 
 
 Hut now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm further off' from heaven. 
 
 Than when I was a hoy !
 
 172 
 
 THE EAST INDIAMAN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 How like a younker, or a prodigal. 
 The scarfed bark pats from her native bay, 
 Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind ! 
 How like the prodigal doth she return; 
 With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged sails. 
 Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind ! 
 
 Merchant of Vemce. 
 
 An anxious, lingering, perilous voyage past, 
 An India ship hail'd Albion's land at last ! 
 Moor'd in the Downs, her mighty pinions close 
 Like some far flying bird that seeks repose ; 
 While, crowding on the deck, a hundred eyes 
 Turn'd shoreward — flash'd with pleasure and surprise. 
 That eve they anchor'd, from the horizon's hem 
 The virgin Moon, as if to welcome them. 
 Rose from her rest — but would no more reveal 
 Than the faint outline of her pale profile : 
 Though soon (as maids forego their fears) she gave 
 Her orbed brow to kiss the wanton wave : 
 Till — like a scornful lover, swoU'n with pride, 
 Because too fondly loved to be denied , 
 The rude wave spurn'd her off, and raised that loud 
 And angry blast that scream'd through sail and 
 
 shroud. 
 The livelong night on which my harp is dwelling. 
 Meanwhile, the swarthy crew, each care dispellmg, 
 Had sported thrice three summer suns away 
 Since they had cast their anclior in that bay. 
 O, none save Fortune's step-sons, doom'd to roam 
 The deep, can prize a harbour and a home !
 
 THE EAST INUIAMAK. 173 
 
 The temperate breeze their sun-bronzed temples 
 
 blessing — 
 A native shore the gladden'd eye refreshing — 
 The painted pinnace dancing from the land 
 Freighted with friends — the pressure of the hand 
 Whose pulse throbs happy seconds — the warm gush 
 Of blood into the cheek, as it would rush 
 With the heart's welcome ere the tongue could half 
 Perform its office — feeling's telegraph ! 
 Impassion'd smiles, and tears of rapture starting — 
 Oh, how unlike the tears which fell at parting ! 
 And all were theirs — that good ship's gallant crew — 
 As tliough each joy which absence render'd due 
 W'ere paid in one bright moment: such are known 
 To those long sever'd, loving, loved, alone ! 
 
 A gorgeous freight that broad-sail'd vessel bore — 
 
 The blazing diamonds and the blushing ore; 
 
 Spices that sigh'd their incense, till the sails 
 
 W'ere fann'd along on aromatic gales 
 
 From Orient lands. Then marvel not if he 
 
 W'ho there is Chief should look exultingly 
 
 Back on the storms he baffled, and should know 
 
 The bosom's warmest wildest overflow 
 
 While gazing on the land which hiugh'd before him — 
 
 The smooth sea round — the blue pavilion o'er hmi ! 
 
 Vet felt he more than ever sprang from tlu'se, 
 
 I'or love demanded deeper sympathies; 
 
 And lontr in lonely bower had sigh'd ft)r him 
 
 A fond fair Bride, whose infant Cherubim 
 
 Oft spirit-clouded from its playthings crept, 
 
 To weep beside its mother while she wept. 
 
 But O, they met at length ! And such sweet days 
 
 Already proved as leave a light that plays 
 
 I'pon the memory when their warmth is gone 
 
 The fount thus treasures sunbeams, and shines on
 
 174 THE EAST INDIAMAN. 
 
 Through dusk and darkness. Like some happy 
 
 mother, 
 Joy mark'd the hours pursuing one another — 
 A wreath of buoyant angels ! Yet as they 
 Wheel'd laughing round, oftsigh'd, to make them stay ! 
 
 This was a day of banqueting on board; 
 And swan-wing'd barks, and barges many-oar'd 
 Came crowded to the feast. The young — the gay — 
 The beautiful — were there. Right merrily 
 The pleasure boats glide onward ; — with swift prow 
 The clear wave curling, till around each bow, 
 With frequent flash, the bright and feathery spray 
 Threw mimic rainbows at the sun in play. 
 The ship is won, the silken chair is lower'd — 
 Exulting Youth and Beauty bound on board ; 
 And, while they wondering craze on sail and shroud. 
 The flag flaps o'er them like a crimson cloud. 
 
 Young Pleasure kiss'd each heart ! From Persia's 
 
 loom 
 An ample awning spread its purple bloom 
 To canopy the guests ; and vases, wreath'd 
 With deep-hued flowers and foliage, sweeily breathed 
 Their incense, fresh as zephyrs when they rove 
 Among the blossoms of a citron grove ; 
 Soft sounds — (invisible spirits on the wing) — 
 Were heard and felt around them hovering ; — 
 In short, some magic seem'd to sway the hour, 
 The wand-struck deck becomes an orient bower ! 
 A very wilderness of blushing roses. 
 Just such as Love would choose when he reposes. 
 The pendent orange from a lush of leaves, 
 Hangs like Hesperian gold ; and, tied in sheaves, 
 Carnations prop their triple coronals ; 
 The grape, out-peeping from thick foliage, falls
 
 THE EAST IXDIAMAX. 175 
 
 Like cluster'd amethysts in deep festoons; 
 
 And sliells are scatter'd round which Indian moon> 
 
 Had sheeted with the silver of their beams; 
 
 But (>, what, more than all, the scene beseems, 
 
 Fair, faultless forms, glide there with wing-lik< 
 
 motion ! — 
 Bright as young Peris rising from the ocean ! 
 
 Eve darken'd down — and yet they were not eone ;• 
 'Die sky had changed, — the sudden storm came on ! 
 One waved on high a ruby sparkling bowl — 
 (Youth, passion, wine, ran riot in his soul) — 
 " Fill to the brim," he cried, '• let others peer 
 Their doubtful path to heaven ; — my heaven is here ! 
 This hour is mine, and who can dash its bliss? 
 Fate dare not darken such an hour as this !" 
 Then stoop'd to quart ; — but (as a charm were thrown) 
 His hand, his lips, grew motionless as stone; 
 His drunkenness of heart no more deceives — 
 The thunder growls, the surge-smote vessel heaves ; 
 And while aghast he stared, a hurrying squall 
 Rent the wide awning, and discover'd all! 
 Across their eyes the hissing lightning blazed — 
 The black wave burst beside tliem as they giized ; 
 And dizzily the thick surf scatter'd o'er them ; 
 And dim and distant loom'd the land before tluin ; 
 No longer firm — the' eternal hills did leave 
 Their solid rest, and heaved, or seem'd to heave. 
 < ), 'twas an awful moment ! — for the crew 
 Had rashly, deeply drank, while yet they knew 
 No ruling eye was on them — and became 
 ^^'il(l as the tempest! I'eril could not t.iine — 
 Nay, stirr'd their brutal hearts to more excess ; 
 Round the deserted banquet-board they press. 
 Like men transform'd to Hends, with oath and yell ! 
 And many deem'd the sea less terrible
 
 176 THE EAST IXDIAMAN, 
 
 Than maniacs fiercely ripe for all, or aught. 
 
 That ever flash'd upon a desperate thought ! 
 
 Strange laughter mingled with the shriek and groan — 
 
 Nor woman shrank, nor woman wept alone. 
 
 Some, as a bolt had smote them, fell ; — and some 
 
 Stared haggard wild : — dismay had struck them dumb. 
 
 There were of firmer nerve, or fiercer cast. 
 
 Who scowl'd defiance back upon the blast — 
 
 Half scorning in their haughty souls to be 
 
 Thus pent and buffeted. And tenderly, 
 
 Even then, to manly hearts fair forms were drawn, 
 
 Whose virgin eyes had never shed their dawn 
 
 Before — soft, beautifully shy — to flush 
 
 A lover's hope ; but as the dove will rush 
 
 Into the school-boy's bosom to elude 
 
 The swooping goshawk — woman, thus subdued, 
 
 Will cling to those she shunn'd in lighter mood — 
 
 The soul confess emotions but conceal'd — 
 
 Pure, glowing, deep, though lingeringly reveal'd; 
 
 That true chameleon which imbibes the tone 
 
 Of every passion hue she pauses on ! 
 
 O, 'tis the cheek that's false — so subtly taught 
 
 It takes not of its colour from the thought ; 
 
 But like volcanic mountains veil'd in snow. 
 
 Hides the heart's lava, while it works below ! 
 
 And there were two who loved, but never told 
 Their love to one another : years had roU'd 
 Since Passion touch'd them with his purple wing. 
 Though still their youth was in its blossoming. 
 Lofty of soul, as riches were denied, 
 He deem'd it mean to woo a wealthy bride ; 
 And (for her tears were secret) coldly she 
 Wreath'd her pale brow in maiden dignity ; 
 Yet each had caught the other's eye reposinsr, 
 And; far as looks disclose, the truth disclosing ;
 
 THE EAST IXDIAMAN. 177 
 
 But when they met, pride check'd the soul's warp.i 
 
 sigh, 
 And froze the melting spirit of the eye : — 
 A pride in vulgar hearts that never shone. 
 And thus they loved, and silently loved on ; 
 But this was not a moment when the head 
 Could trifle with the heart ! The cloud that spread 
 Its chilling veil between them, now had past — 
 Too long awaking — but they woke at last ! 
 He rush'd where clung the fainting fair one — sought 
 To soothe with hopes he felt not, cherish'd not ; 
 And while in passionate support he press'd, 
 She raised her eyes — then swiftly on his breast 
 Hill her blanch'd cheek — as if resign'd to share 
 Tht' worst with him ; — nay, die contented there ! 
 That silent act was fondly eloquent ; 
 And to the youth's deep soul, like lightning, sent 
 A gleam of rapture — exquisite yet brief. 
 As his (poor wretch) that in the grave of grief 
 Feels Fortune's sun burst on him, and looks up 
 With hope to heaven — forgetful of the cu]^, 
 The deadly cup his shivering hand yet strain'd — 
 A hot heart-pang reminds him — it is drain'd ! 
 Away with words! for when had true love ever 
 A haj)j)y star to bless it? — Never, never! 
 And oh, the brightest after-smile of Fate 
 Is but a sad reprieve, which comes — too late! 
 
 The riot shout pcal'd on ; — but deep distress 
 
 Had sunk all else in utter hopelessness ! 
 
 One markM the strife of frenzy and d('sj)air — 
 
 The most concerr>'<l, and yet the calmest there ; 
 
 In bitterness of soul beheld his crew — 
 
 He should have known them, and he thought he 
 
 knew ; 
 The blood-hound on the leash may fawn, obey — 
 He'll tear thee, shouldst thou cross hnn at his prey ! 
 
 I 2
 
 178 THE EAST IXDIAMAN. 
 
 One only trust survives, a doubtful one — 
 
 But O, how cherish'd, every other gone ! 
 
 " While hold our cables, fear not" — As he spoke 
 
 A sea burst o'er them, and their cables broke ! 
 
 Then, like a lion bounding from the toil, 
 
 The ship shot through the billow's black recoil ; 
 
 Urged by the howling blast — all guidance gone — 
 
 They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on — 
 
 Nor dared to question where; nor dared to cast 
 
 One asking look — for that might be their last ! 
 
 What frowns so steep in front — a cliff? a rock ? 
 The groaning vessel staggers in the shock ! 
 The last shriek rings. 
 
 Hark ! whence that voice they hear 
 Loud o'er the rushing waters — loud and near? 
 Alas ! they dream ! — 'tis but the ocean roar ! — 
 Oh no ! it echoes from the swarming shore ! 
 Kind Heaven, thy hand was there. With swelling 
 
 bound 
 The vast waves heaved the giant hull aground ; 
 And, ebbing with the turning tide, became, 
 Like dying monsters, impotent and tame ; 
 Wedged in the sand their chafing can no more 
 Than lave her sides, and deaden with their roar 
 The clamorous burst of joy. But some there were 
 Whose joy was voiceless as their late despair — 
 Whose heavenward eyes, clasp'd hands, and stream- 
 ing cheeks. 
 Did speak a language which the lip ne'er speaks ! 
 O, he were heartless, in that passionate hour. 
 Who could not feel that weakness hath its power, 
 When gentle woman, sobbing and subdued. 
 Breathed forth her vow of holy gratitude. 
 Warm as the contrite Mary's, when — forgiven — 
 An angel smiled, recording it in heaven !
 
 179 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, 
 YORKSHIRE. 
 
 BV HERBERT KNOWLES. 
 
 It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make hero tin 
 Tabernacles, one for thee, one for Mose?, and one for Elias. 
 
 St. Matthew. 
 
 Mr.THiNKS it is good to be here, 
 
 If tliou wilt, let us build — but for whom? 
 
 Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 
 Tlie abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 
 
 Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no ! 
 Affrighted, he shrinketh away, — 
 
 For see, they would pin him below 
 In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay. 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets 
 The charms which she w ielded before ; 
 
 Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
 T\\e skin that but yesterday fool.s could adore, 
 For the smoothness it held, or the lint which it wore. 
 
 Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
 The tmnpings which dizcn the proud f 
 
 Alas! they are all laid aside, 
 And here's neither dress tjor adorn m(!nt allowVl 
 Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 
 shroud.
 
 180 STANZAS. 
 
 To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ; 
 Who hid in their turns have been hid; 
 The treasures are squander'd again ; 
 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
 Save the tinsel that shines on tlie dark coffin lid. 
 
 To the pleasures which INIirth can afford, 
 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
 But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer. 
 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 
 
 Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
 Ah, no ! They have wither'd and died, 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above : 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side. 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 Unto Sorrow? — The dead cannot grieve; 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear 
 
 Which Compassion itself could relieve. 
 Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear, 
 Peace ! peace ! is the watchword, the only one here. 
 
 Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? 
 Ah, no ! for his empire is known. 
 
 And here there are trophies enow ! 
 Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone, 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 
 
 The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 
 
 The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfiird ; 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
 Who bequeath'd us tliem both when he rose to the 
 skies.
 
 181 
 
 ()\ HEARING THE ROAR OF THE SEA 
 AT NIGHT. 
 
 \oicr of the mighty deep, 
 
 Piercing the drowsy night, 
 Thou scarest the gentle sleep, 
 
 Whose pinions will not light 
 Where thou intrudes! busy thought, 
 With depths dark as thy secrets fraught. 
 
 Thy mystic sounds I hear, 
 
 Peal of unwonted things ; 
 Of wonders far and near 
 
 The hollow music rings, 
 Its notes borne wild around the world. 
 Where'er thy dark blue waves are curl'd. 
 
 Oh no, I cannot sleep. 
 
 Thou vast and glorious sea ! 
 While thou dost thus the vigil keep 
 
 Of thy great majesty, 
 1 think God's image near me is. 
 In all its awful mysteries. 
 
 Tliou art a s[>irit, Ocean, thou ! 
 
 Giant of earth and air, 
 Spanning the universe; and now, 
 
 Wjnie making music here, 
 Ten thousand leagues afar thy wave, 
 Is rolling on an empire's grave ! 
 
 Thine arm that shakes me here. 
 
 Thunders upon the shore 
 Of North, and South, and central sphere, 
 
 Puego, Labrador ;
 
 182 ROAR or THE SEA AT NIGHT. 
 
 From flaming Equinox to frigid Pole, 
 Belting the earth thy waters roll. 
 
 Engulfing mountains at a sweep 
 
 Beneath their angry sway, 
 Or raising islands from the deep 
 
 In their triumphant way, 
 Or murmuring sweet round Scian isles, 
 In cadence soft as beauty's smiles. 
 
 'Tis midnight ! — earth and air 
 Are hush'd in lair and rest — 
 
 Thy energ}- from thy long birth 
 Hath never needed rest : 
 
 Thou dost not tire — thou feel'st not toil- 
 
 Thou art not form'd, like me, of soil. 
 
 Why dost thou thunder so ? 
 
 What in thy depths profound, 
 Thus as a strong man with his foe, 
 
 Gives out that angrj' sound ; 
 On earth no foe can ever be. 
 Prince of creation, worthy thee ! 
 
 Age thou hast never known — 
 Thou shalt be young and free. 
 
 Till God command thee give thine own, 
 And all is dumb save thee ; 
 
 And haply when the sun is blood. 
 
 Unchanged shall be thy mighty flood.
 
 183 
 
 KIRKSTALL ABBEY REVISITED. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 The echoes of its vaults are eloquent ! 
 The stones have voices, and the walls do li 
 It is the house of Memory.— Mati'Rin. 
 
 Long years have pass'd since last I stray 'd, 
 In boyhood, through thy roofless aisle, 
 
 And watch'd the mists of eve o'ershade 
 Day's latest, loveliest smile ; 
 
 And saw the bright, broad, moving moon 
 
 Sad up the sapphire skies of June ! 
 
 The air around was breathing balm ; 
 
 Tlie aspen scarcely seem'd to sway ; 
 And, as a sleeping infant calm, 
 
 The river siream'd away, — 
 Devious as Error, deep as Love, 
 And blue and bright as heaven above ! 
 
 Steep'd in a flood of glorious light, — 
 Type of that hour of deep npose, — 
 
 In wan, wild beauty on my siu:ht. 
 Thy tin)e-worn tower arose, — 
 
 Brightening above the wreck of years. 
 
 Like Faith anud a world of fears ! 
 
 I climb'd its dark and dizzy stair. 
 And gain'd its ivy-mantled brow ; 
 
 Hut broken — ruin'd — who may dare 
 Ascend that pathway now .' 
 
 Life was an upward journey then ; — 
 
 When shall my spirit mount again '
 
 IHl KIRlftTALL ABBEY REVISITED. 
 
 The Steps in youth I loved to tread, 
 Have sunk beneath the foot of Time ; 
 
 Like them, the daring hopes that led 
 Me, once, to heights sublime, 
 
 Ambition's dazzling dreams, are o'er, 
 
 And I may scale those heights no more ! 
 
 And years have fled, and novs^ I stand 
 Once more by thy deserted fane, 
 
 Nerveless alike in heart and hand ! 
 How changed by grief and pain. 
 
 Since last I loitei'd here, and deem'd 
 
 Life was the fairy thing it seem'd ! 
 
 And gazing on thy crumbling walls. 
 What visions meet my mental eye ! 
 
 For every stone of thine recalls 
 Some trace of years gone by, — 
 
 Some cherish'd bliss, too frail to last. 
 
 Some hope decay'd, — or passion past ! 
 
 Ay, thoughts come thronging on my soul 
 Of sunny youth's delig-litful morn; 
 
 When free from sorrow's dark control. 
 By pining cares unworn, — 
 
 Dreaming of Fame, and Fortune's smile, 
 
 I linger'd in thy ruin'd aisle ! 
 
 How many a wild and withering woe 
 Hath sear'd my trusting heart since then 
 
 What clouds of blight, consuming slow 
 The springs that life sustain, — 
 
 Have o'er my world-vex'd spirit past, 
 
 Sweet Kirkstall, since I saw thee last ! 
 
 How bright is every scene beheld 
 
 In youth and hope's unclouded hours ! 
 
 How darkly — youth and hope dispell'd — 
 The loveliest prospect lours :
 
 KIRKSTALL AllBEY REVISITED. 18.5 
 
 Thou wert a splendid vision then ; — 
 When wilt thou seem so bright again? 
 
 Vet still thy turrets drink the light 
 
 Of summer evening's softest ray, 
 And ivy garlands, green and bright. 
 
 Still mantle thy decay ; 
 And calm and beauteous, as of old. 
 Thy wandering river glides in gold ! 
 
 Hut life's gay morn of ecstasy, 
 
 That made thee seem so more than fair, — 
 The aspirations wild and high. 
 
 The soul to nobly dare, — 
 < )h where are they, stern ruin, say? — 
 Thou dost but echo — where are they ? 
 
 I'arewell ! — Be still to other hearts 
 
 What thou wert long ago to mine ; 
 And when the blissful dream departs. 
 
 Do thou a beacon shine, 
 To guide the mourner through his tears, 
 To the bless'd scenes of haj)pier years. 
 
 Farewell ! — I ask no richer boon, 
 
 Than that my parting hour may be 
 Bright as the evening skies of June ! 
 
 Thus — thus to fade like thee, 
 With heav«'nly rAirn'^ soul-cheering ray 
 To gild with glory my decay !
 
 186 
 
 ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT. 
 
 BY WILLIAM B. PEABODY. 
 
 And this is death ! how cold and still, 
 
 And yet how lovely it appears ! 
 Too cold to let the gazer smile, 
 
 And yet too beautiful for tears. 
 The sparkling eye no more is bright, 
 
 The cheek hath lost its roselike red ; 
 And yet it is with strange delight 
 
 I stand and gaze upon the dead. 
 
 But when I see the fair wide brow, 
 
 Half shaded by the silken hair, 
 That never look'd so fair as now, 
 
 When life and health were laughing there, 
 I wonder not that grief should swell 
 
 So wildly upward in the breast, 
 And that strong passion once rebel, 
 
 That need not, cannot be suppress'd. 
 
 I wonder not that parents' eyes 
 
 In gazing thus grow cold and dim. 
 That burning tears and aching sighs 
 
 Are blended with the funeral hymn ; 
 The spirit hath an earthly part. 
 
 That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, 
 And heaven would scorn the frozen heart 
 
 That melts not when the infant dies. 
 
 And yet why mourn ? that deep repose 
 Shall never more be broke by pain ; 
 
 Those lips no more in sighs unclose, 
 Those eyes shall never weep again.
 
 ON SEEING A DECEASEn INIANT. 187 
 
 For think not that the blushing flower 
 Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 
 
 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower 
 Within the paradise of God. 
 
 Once more I gaze — and swift and far 
 
 The clouds of death in sorrow fly, 
 I see thee, like a new-born star, 
 
 INIove up thy pathway in the sky : 
 The star hath rays serene and bright. 
 
 But cold and pale compared with thine ; 
 For thy orb shines with heavenly light, 
 
 With beams unfading and divine. 
 
 Then let the burthen'd heart be free, 
 
 The tears of sorrow all be shed. 
 And parents calmly bend to see 
 
 The mournful beauty of the dead ; 
 Thrice happy — that their infant bears 
 
 To heaven no darkening stains of sin; 
 And only breathed life's morning airs 
 
 Before its noonday storms begin. 
 
 Farewell ! I shall not soon forget ! 
 
 Although thy heart hath ceased to beat. 
 My memory warmly treasures yet 
 
 Thy features calm and mildly sweet; 
 But no, that look is not the last, 
 
 We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, 
 Where love no more deplores the past, 
 
 Nor breathes that withering word — farewell.
 
 188 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 BY LVDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 
 
 Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; 
 
 Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
 
 With your sand-based structures and domes of rock 
 
 Your columns the fathomless fountains lave. 
 
 And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 
 
 Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
 The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone ; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king; 
 The turf looks green where the breakers roH'd ; 
 O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
 Tlie sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men, 
 And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
 Tliere are snares enough on the tented field, 
 'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield ; 
 There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; 
 There's a poison drop in man's purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle breath. 
 And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 
 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; — 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
 
 THE CORAL IXf^ECT. 189 
 
 Aiul the gods of ocean have frown'd to see 
 The mariner's bed in their halls of glee; — 
 Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
 'I'he boundless sea for the thronging dead .' 
 
 Ve build — ye build — but ye enter not in, 
 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin ; 
 
 From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
 
 Kre its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; — 
 
 As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid. 
 
 Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, 
 
 Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main. 
 
 While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 
 
 STANZAS FOR AN ARABIAN AIR. 
 
 Bright, bright is the eye of the wild gazelle. 
 
 And her footstep fleet and free ; 
 And white is the pearl, when its native well 
 ^Jirrors the blush of the coral bell 
 
 (Jn the pomegranate tree ; — 
 But I know, I know of a bri<;hter eye, 
 
 Of a step more gracffiil too — 
 Of a brow like the pearl in its purity — 
 Of a lip of a deeper coral dye 
 
 Than the rich promegranate's hue ! 
 
 Her locks are the pur|)le clouds of morn, 
 
 When their folds like banners float; 
 And her soft celestial voice is born, 
 
 As it were, of the bulbul's note I 
 Her sleep is the calm of a breathing rose — 
 
 The rest of a lonely dove, 
 When the leaves are luU'd in the light that flows 
 
 From the mellow skies above !
 
 190 STANZAS FOR AX ARABIAN AIR. 
 
 We sat by the fount at even' close, 
 
 The star was softly bright — 
 And a whisper'd dream from the wave's repose, 
 
 Stole on the ear of night ! 
 Sweet, sweet, said I, is that fountain's dream, 
 
 And sweet is yon blue star's tender shine — 
 (Jh ! love me, maid ! and my soul shall rest, 
 i\Jore gently luU'd, and more deeply bless'd, 
 
 In the beam of those eyes of thine ! 
 
 Wild is the bound of the antelope, 
 
 When he seeks his sunny cliff; 
 
 When his far home dawns on the plunging skiti, 
 ^Vild, wild, is the sea-boy's hope : 
 But wilder, maiden ! oh, wilder yet, 
 
 Shall the joy of my spirit be — 
 When the day that hath made thee mine has set, 
 And the sound of the dance and the castanet 
 
 Is under the citron tree ! 
 
 AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL. 
 
 BY BISHOP HEBER. 
 
 Our task is done ! — on Gunga's breast 
 
 The sun is sinking down to rest : 
 
 And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough, 
 
 Our bark has found its harbour now. 
 
 With furled sail, and painted side, 
 
 Behold the tiny frigate ride. 
 
 L^pon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams, 
 
 The Moslems' savoury supper steams. 
 
 While all apart, beneath the wood, 
 
 The Hindoo cooks his simpler food. 
 
 Come walk with me the jungle through ; 
 If yonder hunter told us true,
 
 AX EVENING WALK IN BENGAL. 101 
 
 Far off in desert dank and rude, 
 
 The tiger holds liis solitude ; 
 
 Nor (taught by recent harm to shun 
 
 The thunders of the English gun) 
 
 A dreadful guest but rarely seen, 
 
 J{etums to scare the village green. 
 
 Come boldly on ! no venom'd snake 
 
 Can shelter in so cool a brake ; 
 
 Child of the sun ! he loves to lie 
 
 'Mid Nature's embers, parch'd and dry, 
 
 Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, 
 
 The peepul spreads its haunted shade, 
 
 Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe. 
 
 Fit warder in the gate of death ! 
 
 Come on ! Yet pause! behold us now 
 
 Beneath the bamboo's arched bough. 
 
 Where gemming oft that sacred gloom, 
 
 Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom. 
 
 And winds our path through many a bower, 
 
 Of fragrant tree and crimson Hower ; 
 
 The ceiba's crimson pomp display 'd 
 
 O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade, 
 
 And dusk anana's prickly blade ; 
 
 Wjiile o'er the brake, so wild and fair, 
 
 The betel waves his crest in air. 
 
 With pendent train and rushing wings, 
 
 Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs; 
 
 And he, the bird ot hundred dyes. 
 
 Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. 
 
 So rich a shade, so green a sod. 
 
 Our Knglish fairies never trod ; 
 
 ^'et who in Indian bower has stood. 
 
 But thought on Kngland's good green-wood .' 
 
 And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade. 
 
 Her hazel and her hawthorn Rlade, 
 
 And breathed a prayer (how oft in vain) 
 
 To gaze upon her oaks again.
 
 192 AX EVENING WALK IN BENGAL. 
 
 A truce to thought ! the jackal's cry 
 Resounds like silvan revelry ; 
 And through the trees yon falling ray 
 Will scantly ser\-e to guide our way. 
 Yet mark ! as fade the upper skies, 
 Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes ; 
 Before, beside us, and above, 
 The fire-fly lights his lamp of love. 
 Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring. 
 The darkness of the copse exploring ; 
 While to this cooler air confess'd 
 The broad Dhatura bares her breast 
 Of fragrant scent and virgin white, 
 A pearl around the locks of night ! 
 Still as we pass, in soften'd hum. 
 Along the breezy alleys come 
 The village song, the horn, the drum. 
 Still as we pass, from bush and briar, 
 The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; 
 And what is she, whose liquid strain 
 Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ? 
 I know that soul-entrancing swell ! 
 It is — it must be — Philomel. 
 
 Enough, enough, the rustling trees 
 Announce a shower upon the breeze, — 
 The flashes of the summer sky 
 Assume a deeper, ruddier dye ; 
 Yon lamp that trembles on the stream. 
 From forth our cabin sheds its beam ; 
 And we must early sleep, to find 
 Betimes the morning's healthy wind. 
 But oh ! with thankful hearts confess 
 E'en here there may be happiness ; 
 And He, the bounteous Sire, has given 
 His peace on earth — his hope of heaven.
 
 193 
 THE POET'S DEATHBED. 
 
 BY JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 Oh, alas, and alas I 
 Green grows the grass! 
 Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass. 
 
 Ye tell me 'tis the opening hour; — then ere the day 
 
 be flown 
 Tlie casement ope, that I may see my last of suns go 
 
 down. 
 With beams as beautiful he'll rise to gladden earth 
 
 again, 
 And wake the world with life and light, — but shine 
 
 for me in vain. 
 
 Yes — of the azure sky above, and the green earth below, 
 I yet would take a last farewell to cheer me as I go ; 
 And I will deem the light that glows along the verge 
 
 of even, 
 And plays upon my faded cheek, the smile of opening 
 
 heaven. 
 
 And let my fainting heart inhale sweet Nature's fra- 
 grant brealli. 
 
 That waftij a message from the bowers to soothe the 
 bed of death ; 
 
 That bears a whisper from the woods, a farewell from 
 the spring, 
 
 A tale of open leaf and bud— while I am withering. 
 
 And let me hear the small birds sing among the garden 
 
 bowers 
 Their evening hymn, that wont to bless my solitary 
 
 hours : 
 rvRF.. K
 
 194 THE poet's deathbed. 
 
 That coral anthem, warbled wild upon the leafy spray, 
 Will glad this ear, that to the strain must soon be deaf 
 for aye. 
 
 And blame me not, that, call'd away unto a land ot 
 bliss, 
 
 I fondly linger on the shore of such a world as this ; 
 
 And better love, than aught I know of bright immor- 
 tal spheres. 
 
 This earth, so lovely in her woe, so beautifiil in tear^ 
 
 SONG. 
 
 We break the glass, whose sacred wine 
 To some beloved health we drain, 
 Lest future pledges, less divine. 
 Should e'er the hallow'd cup profane ; 
 And thus I broke a heart that pour'd 
 Its tide of feeling out for thee, 
 In draughts, by after-times deplored, 
 Yet dear to memory. 
 
 But still the old impassion'd way^ 
 And habits of my mind remain, 
 And still unhappy light displays 
 Thine image chamber'd in my brain. 
 And still it looks as when the hours 
 Went by like flights of singing birds, 
 On that soft chain of spoken flowers. 
 And airy gems, thy words.
 
 195 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 BY JAMES PERCIVAL. 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
 
 Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
 
 Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
 
 That never are wet with falling dew, 
 
 Hut in bright and changeful beauty shine 
 
 Far down in the green and grassy brine. 
 
 The floor is of sand like the mountain drift, 
 
 And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow : 
 
 From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
 
 Their boughs where the tides and billows flow ; 
 
 The water is calm and still below. 
 
 For tjje winds and waves are absent there, 
 
 And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
 
 In the motionless fields of upper air; 
 
 There with its waving blade of green, 
 
 The sea-flag stre^ims through the silent water, 
 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 
 To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter ; 
 
 There with a light and easy motion, 
 
 The fan -coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; 
 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 
 Are bending like corn on the uplaml lea; 
 
 And life, in rare and bemitiful forms, 
 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 
 
 And is safe, when the wnithful spirit of storms, 
 
 Has made the toj) of the wave his own : 
 
 And when the ship from his fury flies, 
 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on shore : 
 
 Then far below, in the |>eaceful sea, 
 
 The purple midlet and gold-fish rove, 
 
 Where the waters murmur tranquilly 
 
 Through the bending twigs of the Coral Grove.
 
 196 
 
 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 My mother's grave, my mother's grave ! 
 
 Oh ! dreamless is her slumber there, 
 And drowsily the banners wave 
 
 O'er her that was so chaste and fair ; 
 Yea ! love is dead, and memory faded ! 
 
 But when the dew is on the brake, 
 And silence sleeps on earth and sea. 
 
 And mourners weep, and ghosts awake, 
 
 Oh ! then she cometh back to me, 
 In her cold beauty darkly shaded ! 
 
 I cannot guess her face or form ; 
 
 But what to me is form or face ? 
 I do not ask the wearj' worm 
 
 To give me back each buried grace 
 Of glistening eyes or trailing tresses I 
 
 I only feel that she is here. 
 And that we meet, and that we part ; 
 
 And that I drink within mine ear, 
 
 And that I clasp around my lieart. 
 Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses ! 
 
 Not in the waking thought by day, 
 Not in the sightless dream by night, 
 
 Do the mild tones and glances play 
 Of her who was my cradle's light ! 
 
 But in some twilight of calm weather, 
 She glides, by fancy dimly wrought, 
 
 A glittering cloud, a darkling beam. 
 With all the quiet of a thought, 
 And all the passion of a dream, 
 
 Link'd in a golden spell together !
 
 197 
 
 ON A PICTURE. 
 
 How may this little tablet feign the features of a face, 
 Which o'er-iiiforms with loveliness its proper share of 
 
 space ; 
 ( )r human hands on ivory enable us to see 
 The charms, that all must wonder at, thou work of 
 
 gods, in thee. 
 
 But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories 
 
 tells. 
 And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded 
 
 crystal wells; 
 Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, 
 Forget the blood that deck'd tiiy cheek, as rosy clouds 
 
 the sky. 
 
 They could not semble what thou art, more excellent 
 
 than fair, 
 As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air; 
 But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect 
 
 wrought, 
 That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful 
 
 of thought. 
 
 The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry 
 Of something better, which is now a memory to me, 
 Who have upon life's frozen sea just reach'd the icy 
 
 spot,^ 
 NN here men's magnetic feelings show their guiding 
 
 taak forgot. 
 
 Tlie sportive ho|)es that used to chase their shiftini,' 
 
 shadows on, 
 Like children playing in the sun, are gone — for ever 
 
 gone ;
 
 198 ON A PICTURE. 
 
 And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted 
 
 mind, 
 Like Janus, when his gates are shut, looks forward 
 
 and behind, 
 
 Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, 
 Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking 
 
 harp string's tone ; 
 And thus my heart, though wholly now from earthly 
 
 softness free, 
 If touch'd, will yield the music yet, it first received 
 
 of thee. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. 
 
 BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of tlie 
 
 year. 
 Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows 
 
 brown and sere. 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves 
 
 lie dead, 
 They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's 
 
 tread, 
 The robin and tlie wren are flown, and from the shrubs 
 
 the jay. 
 And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the 
 
 gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
 lately sprung and stood 
 
 J 11 brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
 hood i 
 
 I
 
 THE CLOSE OF AUTIMN. 199 
 
 Alas ! they 5II are in their graves — the gentle race of 
 flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
 of ours : 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie — but the cold No- 
 vember rain 
 
 Calls not from out tlie gloomy earth the lovely ones 
 again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, 
 
 And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the 
 summer's glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the 
 wood. 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn 
 beauty stood. 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
 the plague on men, 
 
 And the brightness of tlieir smile wa^j gone from u in- 
 land, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now when comes the calm mild day — as still 
 such days will come. 
 
 To call the s^juirrel and tlie bee from out their winter 
 home ; 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, thouuh 
 all the trees are still, 
 
 And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill. 
 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
 grance late he bore, 
 
 And sighs to find them iti the wood and by the stream 
 no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 
 
 died, 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 
 
 my side.
 
 200 THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. 
 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 
 
 cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so 
 
 brief; 
 Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend 
 
 of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 LINES ON A SKULL. 
 
 Behold this ruin ! — 'twas a skull, 
 
 Once of ethereal spirit full. 
 
 This narrow cell was life's retreat — 
 
 This space was thought's mysterious seat ; — 
 
 What beauteous pictures fill'd this spot 1 
 
 What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! 
 
 Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear. 
 
 Has left one trace or record here I 
 
 Beneath this mouldering canopy 
 
 Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 
 
 But start not at the dismal void. 
 
 If social love that eye employ'd, — 
 
 If with no lawless fire it gleam'd, — 
 
 But through the dew of kindness beam'd. 
 
 That eye shall be for ever bright 
 
 When stars and suns have lost their light. 
 
 Here, in this silent cavern hung 
 
 The ready swift and tuneful tongue ; 
 
 If falsehood's honey it disdain'd, 
 
 And where it could not praise, was chain'd — 
 
 If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. 
 
 Yet gentle concord never broke —
 
 LINES ON A SKULL. 201 
 
 That tuneful tongue shall plead for thci; 
 When death unveils eternity. 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
 Or with its envied rubies shine? 
 To hew the rock, to wear tlie gem, 
 Can nothing now avail to them ; 
 But if the page of truth they sought, 
 (Jr comfort to the mourner brought, 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that waits on wealth or fame. 
 
 Avails it, whether bare or shod 
 These feet the path of duty trod ? 
 If from the bowers of joy they tied, 
 To soothe affliction's humble bed — 
 If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurn'd, 
 And home to virtue's lap return'd — 
 These feet with angels' wings shall vie. 
 And tread the palace of the sky. 
 
 MV BIRTHDAY. 
 
 HY T. MOOIIK. 
 
 * Mv birthday' — what a different sound 
 
 Th;it wonl had in my youlliful cars ! 
 And how, each time the day comes round. 
 
 Less and less white the mark aj)])ears. 
 \N hon first our scanty years are told. 
 It seems like pastime to grow old ; 
 And, as youth counts the shining links. 
 
 That time around him binds so fast, 
 Pleased with the task, he little thinks 
 
 How hard that chain will press at last. 
 K *2
 
 202 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Vain was the man, and false as vain, 
 
 Who said ' Were he ordain'd to run 
 His long career of life again, 
 
 He would do all that he had done.' 
 Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells 
 
 In sober birthdays speaks to me; 
 Far other\\'ise — of time it tells, 
 
 Lavish'd unwisely — carelessly — 
 Of counsel mock'd, of talents, made 
 
 Haply for high and pure designs, 
 But oft, like Israel's incense, laid 
 
 Upon unholy, earthly shrines ; — 
 Of nursing many a wrong desire — 
 
 Of wandering after love too far, 
 And taking every meteor fire, 
 
 That cross'd my pathway, for his star ! 
 All this it tells, and, could I trace 
 
 The imperfect picture o'er again. 
 With power to add, retouch, efface, 
 
 The lights and shades, the ;,oy and pain, 
 How little of the past would stay ! 
 How quickly all should meh away : — 
 All but that freedom of the mind, 
 
 Which hath been more than wealth to me 
 Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, 
 
 And kept till now unchangingly ; 
 And that dear home, that saving ark, 
 
 Where love's true light at last I've found. 
 Cheering within, when all grows dark, 
 
 And comfortless, and stormy round 1
 
 203 
 LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. 
 
 " Missolonelii, Jan. 23, 1824. 
 ' On this day I coinpltted my thirty-sixth year. 
 
 Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it has ceased to move ; 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone, 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 The fire that in my bosom preys. 
 
 Is like to some volcanic isle, 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze; — 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
 The' exalted pcjrtion of the pain, 
 And jK)wer of love, 1 cannot share; 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not here — it is not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now 
 Where glory seals the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 
 Cilory and Greece around us see; 
 The Spartan borne upon his shield 
 Was not more free.
 
 204 LORD Byron's latest verses. 
 
 Awake ! not Greece — she is awake ! 
 
 Awake, my spirit, — think through whom 
 ]My life blood tastes its parent hike— 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 I tread reviving passions down, 
 
 Unworthy ]Nlanhood — unto thee, 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret thy youth, — why live ? 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best, 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 THE CONVICT SHIP. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 MoiiN on the waters ! — and, purple and bright, 
 
 Bursts on the billows the flushing of light; 
 
 O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 
 
 See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 
 
 Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. 
 
 And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in tlie 
 
 gale ; 
 The winds come around her, in murmur and song, 
 And the surges rejoice as they bear her along; 
 See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, 
 And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
 
 THE CONVICT SHIP. 20.'» 
 
 (inward she glides, amid ripple and spray, 
 Over the waters, — away, and away ! 
 Biitjht as the visions of youth, ere they part. 
 Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! 
 Who — as the beautiful ])ageant sweejis by. 
 Music around her, and sunshine on high — 
 Pauses to think, amid glitler and glow, 
 Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below ! 
 
 Night on the waves! — and the moon is on high, 
 Hung, like a gem, on tlie brow of the sky. 
 Treading its dej)ths in the power of her might. 
 And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to liaht ! 
 Look to the waters ! — asleep on their breast. 
 Seems not the ship like an island of rest? 
 Hright and alone on the shadowy main, 
 Like a heart-cherish 'd home on some desolate plain ! 
 \N ho — as she smiles in the silvery light, 
 Spreading her wings on the bosom of night. 
 Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
 A phantom of beauty — could deem with a sigh, 
 That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, 
 And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within f 
 Who — as he watches her silently gliding — 
 Remembers that wave .after wave is dividing 
 Hosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, 
 Hearts which are parted and broken for ever? 
 Or deems that ho matches, afloat on the wave, 
 The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ? 
 
 'Tis Uius with our life, while it passes alonff, 
 
 Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song ! 
 
 Oaily we glide, in the gaze of tlic world, 
 
 \N'ilh streamers aflojt, and with canvass unfurl'd ; 
 
 All gladness and glor}', to wandering eyes, 
 
 Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs : —
 
 206 THE CONVICT SHIP. 
 
 Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 
 
 As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; 
 
 And the withering thoughts which the world cannot 
 
 know, 
 Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below ; 
 Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore 
 Where the dreams of our childhood arevanish'd and 
 
 o'er. 
 
 I 
 
 THE SHIP AT SEA. 
 
 BY JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 A WHITE sail gleaming on the flood, 
 And the bright-orb'd sun on high. 
 
 Are all that break the solitude 
 Of the circling sea and sky; — 
 
 Nor cloud, nor cape is imaged there ; 
 
 Nor isle of ocean, nor of air. 
 
 Led by the magnet o'er the tides, 
 That bark her path explores, — 
 
 Sure as unerring instinct guides 
 The bird to unseen shores : 
 
 With wings that o'er the waves expand, 
 
 She wanders to a viewless land. 
 
 Yet not alone ; — on ocean's breast, 
 Though no green islet glows. 
 
 No sweet, refreshing spot of rest, 
 Where fancy may repose ; 
 
 Nor rock, nor hill, nor tower, nor tree. 
 
 Breaks the blank solitude of sea ; —
 
 THE SHIP AT SEA. 207 
 
 No ! not alone ! — her beauteous shade 
 
 Attends her noiseless way ; 
 As some sweet memory, undecay'd, 
 
 Clings to the heart for aye, 
 And haunts it — wheresoe'er we go, 
 Through every scene of joy and woe. 
 
 And not alone ; — for day and night 
 
 Escort her o'er the deep ; 
 And round her solitary flight 
 
 Tlie stars their vigils keep. 
 Above, below, are circling skies, 
 And heaven around her pathway lies. 
 
 And not alone ; — for hopes and fears 
 
 Go with her wandering sail ; 
 And bright eyes watch, through gathering tears, 
 
 Its distant cloud to liail ; 
 And prayers for her at midnight lone 
 Ascend, unheard by all, save One. 
 
 And not alone ; — for round her glow 
 
 The vital light and air ; 
 And something that in whispers low 
 
 Tells to man's spirit there, 
 I'pon her waste and weary roiid, 
 A present, all pervading (iod !
 
 208 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 BY JOHN PIERPOINT. 
 
 The pilgrim fathers — where are they ? 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore : 
 
 Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day. 
 
 When the May-flower moor'd below, 
 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 
 But the snow white sail, that he gave to the gale, 
 
 When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ; — 
 
 As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame. 
 
 In tlie morning's flame burns now. 
 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hill-side and the sea. 
 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; — 
 
 But the pilgrim — where is he ? 
 
 The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 
 
 When S^mimer's throned on high. 
 
 And tlie world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 209 
 
 Tlie earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On that hallowed spot is cast; 
 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot at last. 
 
 Tlie pilgrim spirit has not fled : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light; 
 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars by night. 
 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the May-flower lay. 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH. 
 nV THOMAS SHERIDAN. 
 
 * Britannia rules the waves!' 
 Heard'st thou that dreadful roar? 
 Hark ! 'tis bellow'd from the caves 
 Where Lough Swilly's billow raves, 
 And three hundred British graves 
 Taint the shore. 
 
 No voice of life w;ls there ! 
 'Tis the dead that raise tliat cry ; 
 The dead, who raised no prayer 
 As they sunk in wild despair, 
 Chaunt in scorn that boastful air. 
 Where they lie.
 
 '210 ON THE LOSS OF THE SALDANAH. 
 
 ' Rule Britannia' sung the crew 
 When the stout Saldanah sail'd; 
 And her colours, as they flew, 
 Flung the warrior-cross to view, 
 Which in battle to subdue 
 
 Ne'er had fail'd. 
 
 Bright rose the laughing morn 
 (That morn that seal'd her doom). 
 Dark and sad is her return. 
 And the storm-lights faintly burn, 
 As they toss upon her stern 
 
 'Mid the gloom. 
 
 From the lonely beacon's height. 
 As the watchmen gazed around, 
 They saw^ their flashing light 
 Drive swift athwart the night ; 
 Yet the wind was fair, and right 
 To the Sound. 
 
 But no mortal power shall now 
 That crew and vessel save; — 
 They are shrouded as they go 
 In a hurricane of snow, 
 And the track beneath her prow 
 Is their grave. 
 
 There are spirits of the deep. 
 Who, when the warrant's given, 
 Rise raging from their sleep 
 On rock, or mountain steep, 
 Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep 
 
 The wrath of Heaven.
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE SALPANAH. 211 
 
 High the eddying mists are whirl'd 
 As they rear their giant forms ; 
 See ! their tempest flag's unfurl'd, — 
 Fierce they sweep the prostrate world, 
 And the withering lightning's hurl'd 
 Through the storms. 
 
 O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, 
 Commission'd watch to keep ; 
 Down, down, with thundering roar, 
 The exulting demons pour. — 
 Tlie Saldanah floats no more 
 O'er the deep ! 
 
 Tlie dread behest is past! — 
 All is silent as the grave ; 
 One shriek was first and last — 
 Scarce a death-sob flrunk the blast, 
 As sank her towering mast 
 
 Beneath the wave. 
 
 * Britannia rules the waves ' — 
 O vain and impious boast! 
 Go mark, presumptuous slaves, 
 Where lie, who sinks or saves, 
 Scars the sands witli countless graves 
 Round your coast.
 
 212 
 
 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 I SAW her in her morn of hope, in life's delicious 
 
 spring, 
 A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the 
 
 wing; 
 Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on 
 
 high, 
 Without a shadow in its path, — a cloud upon its 
 
 sky. 
 
 I see her yet — so fancy deems — her soft, unbraided 
 hair. 
 
 Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her fore- 
 head fair ; — 
 
 Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning 
 smile that play'd, 
 
 In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's 
 self had made !' 
 
 And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on 
 
 her way. 
 Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd 
 
 would ever know decay ; — 
 She had no winter m her note, but evermore would 
 
 sing 
 (What darker season had she proved ?) of spring — of 
 
 only spring ! 
 
 Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so 
 
 bright, 
 The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour 
 
 should blight ; —
 
 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 213 
 
 Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant 
 
 brow o'ercast, 
 And make her beauty — like her bliss — a shadow of 
 
 the past ! 
 
 Years came and went — we met again, — but what a 
 
 change was there ! 
 The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of 
 
 despair ; — 
 The fitful flushing of the cheek, — the lips compress'd 
 
 and thin, — 
 The clench of the attenuate hands, — proclaim'd the 
 
 strife within ! 
 
 Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying 
 
 power had given 
 Beauty, of more than mortal birth, — a spell that 
 
 breathed of heaven ; — 
 And as she bent, resign 'd and meek, beneath the 
 
 cluistening blow. 
 With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd to 
 
 glow ! 
 
 No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour 
 
 was spoken. 
 For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted 
 
 pledges broken ; — 
 Like Him wlio for his murderers pray'd, — she wept, 
 
 but did not thi<le, 
 And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died ! 
 
 Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond 
 
 woman's truth ; 
 Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of 
 
 her youth : [and lost, 
 
 And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved 
 That the truest and the tenderest heart must always 
 
 sufl'er most !
 
 214 
 
 THE LAST SWALLOW. 
 
 BY RICHARD HOWITT. 
 
 Away, away, why dost thou linger here, 
 When all thy fellows o'er the sea have pass'd ? 
 Wert tliou the earliest comer of the year, 
 Loving our land, and so dost stay the last? 
 And is the sound of growing streams unheard ? 
 Dost thou not see the woods are fading fast, 
 Whilst the dull leaves with wailful winds are stirr'd '. 
 Haste, haste to other climes, thou solitary- bird ! 
 
 Thy coming was in lovelier skies — thy wing. 
 Long wearied, rested in delightful bowers ; 
 Thou cam.est when the living breath of spring 
 Had fiird the world with gladness and with flowers ! 
 Skyward the carolling lark no longer towers — 
 Alone we hear the robin's pensive lay ; 
 And from the sky of beauty darkness lours : 
 Tliy coming was with hope, but thou didst sta\ 
 'Midst melancholy thoughts, Aat dwell upon deciiy. 
 
 Blessed are tliey who have before thee fled ! 
 Their's have been all the pleasures of the prime ; 
 Like those who die before their joys are dead. 
 Leaving a lovely for a lovelier clime, 
 Soaring to beautiful worlds on wings sublime : 
 Whilst thou dost mind me of their doom severe. 
 Who live to feel the winter of their time : 
 Who linger on, till not a friend is near, 
 Then fade into the ^rave — and s:o without a tear. 
 
 1
 
 21. 
 
 BRING BACK THE CHAIN! 
 
 BY THK HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 h was an aged man, who stood 
 
 Beside the blue Atlantic sea ; 
 They cast his fetters by the flood, 
 
 And hail'd the time-worn captive free ! 
 From his indignant eye there flash'd 
 
 A gleam his better nature gave. 
 And while his tyrants shrunk abash'd, 
 
 Thus spoke the spirit-stricken slave : 
 
 " Bring back the chain, whose weight so lont 
 
 These tortured limbs have vainly borne ; 
 The word of Freedom from your tongue, 
 
 My weary ear rejects with scorn ! 
 'Tis true, there was — there was a time, 
 
 I sigh'd, I panted to be free ; 
 And, pining tor my sunny clime, 
 
 Bow'd down my stubborn knee. 
 
 " riicn I have stretch'd my yearning arms, 
 
 And shook in wrath my bitter chain ; — 
 Then, when the magic word had charms, 
 
 I groan'd for liberty in vain ! 
 That freedom ye, at length, bestow, 
 
 And bid me bless my envied fate : 
 Ye tell me I am free to go — 
 
 Where? — I am desolate! 
 
 '* The boundless hope — the spring of joy, 
 Felt when the spirit's strength is young; 
 
 Which slaverj' only can alloy, 
 
 The mockeries to which 1 clung, —
 
 •216 BRIXG BACK THE CHAIN. 
 
 The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray 
 
 Made life's dull lamp less dimly burn, — 
 
 The tones I pined for, day by day. 
 Can ye bid them return ? 
 
 " Bring back the chain ! its clanking sound 
 
 Hath then a power beyond your own ; 
 It brings young visions smiling round. 
 
 Too fondly loved — too early ilown ! 
 It brings me days, when these dim eyes 
 
 Gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea, 
 Counting how many suns must rise 
 
 Ere one might hail me free ! 
 
 " Bring back the chain ! that I may think 
 
 'Tis that which weighs my spirit so : 
 And, gazing on each galling link. 
 
 Dream as I dreamt — of bitter woe ! 
 My days are gone ; — of hope, of youth, 
 
 These traces now alone remain ; 
 (Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth) 
 
 Tears, and my iron chain ! 
 
 " Freedom ! though doom'd in pain to live, 
 
 The freedom of the soul is mine ; 
 But all of slaver}' you could give 
 
 Around my steps must ever twine. 
 Raise up the head which age hath bent ; 
 
 Renew the hopes that childhood gave ; 
 Bid all return kind Heaven once lent, — 
 
 Till then — I am a Slave !"
 
 21 
 
 COULDST THOU BUT KNOW. 
 
 BV LADY CAROLINE LAMD. 
 
 UoT LDST thou but know wliat 'tis to weep — 
 
 To weep unjntied and alone, 
 The livelong night whilst others sleep. 
 Silent and mournful watch to keep, 
 
 Thou wouldst not do what I have done. 
 
 Couldst thou but know what 'lis to smile, 
 
 To smile when scorn'd by every one ; 
 To hide by many an artful wile, 
 A heart that knows more grief than guile, 
 Thou wouldst not do what I have done. 
 
 And, oh ! if thou couldst think how dre.tr, 
 
 \N hen friends are changed, and health is gone, 
 
 Tlie world would to thine eyes appear, 
 
 If thou, like me, to none wert dear, 
 
 Tliou wouldst not do what I have done. 
 
 ABJURATION. 
 
 BV MISS BOWLE*;. 
 
 TuKiiE was a time — sweet time of youthful follv ! 
 
 Fantastic woes I ccnirtcd, fcign'd distress ; 
 Wooing tli€ veiled phantom, Melancholy, 
 
 With passion bom, like lx)ve, " in idleness." 
 
 And like a lover, like a jealous lover, 
 
 I hid mine idol with a miser's art 
 (Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover). 
 
 Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart. 
 
 LYRE. L
 
 218 ABJURATION. 
 
 And there I sought her — oft in secret sought her, 
 From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play, 
 
 To wear aw^ay, by some deep stilly water. 
 In greenwood lone, the livelong summer day, 
 
 Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, 
 The flying rack athwart the wavy grass ; 
 
 And murmuring oft, " Alack ! this life of ours — 
 Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass !" 
 
 And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden !) 
 Bedropt the liquid glass, like summer rain ; — 
 
 And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, 
 
 Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain. 
 
 And then I loved to haunt lone burial-places. 
 
 Pacing the churchyard earth witli noiseless tread ; 
 
 To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces, 
 Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead : 
 
 To think of passing bells — of death and dying — 
 Methought 'twere sweet in early youth to die. 
 
 So loved, lamented — in such sweet sleep lying, 
 The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary 
 
 Strew'd o'er by loving hands ! — But then 'twould 
 grieve me 
 
 Too sore, forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew ; — 
 1 could not bear the thought, to die and leave ye ; 
 
 And I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you. 
 
 And I have lived to prove that fading flowers 
 Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize — 
 
 What chilling rains succeed the summer showers. 
 What bitter drops, wrung slow from elder eyes.
 
 ABJURATION. '219 
 
 And 1 liave lived to look on Dealli and dying, 
 To count tlie sinking pulse — the shortening breatli : 
 
 To watch the last faint life-streak tlying — Hying, — 
 To stoop — to start — to be alone with — Death. 
 
 And I have lived to wear the smiles of gladness. 
 When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold — 
 
 When all earth's joys seem'd mockery and madness, 
 And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." 
 
 And now — and now, pale pining Melancholy ! 
 
 No longer veil'd for me your liaggard brow, 
 In pensive sweetness — such as youthful folly 
 
 I'ondly conceited — I abjure ye now ! 
 
 Away — avaunt ! No longer now I call ye 
 " Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid !" 
 
 No longer may your siren spells enthral me, 
 A willing captive in your baleful shade. 
 
 Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter — 
 The sparkling glance of Pleasure's roving eye. 
 
 Tlie past is past. — Avaunt, thou dark Hereafter! 
 " Come, eat and drink — to-morrow we must die !" 
 
 So, in his despenite mood, the f«^ol hath spoken — 
 The fool whose heart hath siiitl, " there is no 
 (;od." 
 
 Rut for thf stricken heart, the spirit broken. 
 There's balm in Gilead yet. The very rod. 
 
 If we but kiss it, as tiie stroke descendeth, 
 Distillelh balm to allay the intlictt-d smart, 
 
 And " i'eace that passoth understanding," blendeth 
 With the deep sighing of the conlrile heart.
 
 '220 ABJURATION. 
 
 Mine be that holy, humble tribulation — 
 No longer feign'd distress — fantastic woe, — 
 
 I know my griefs, — but then my consolation- 
 My trust, and my immortal hopes I know. 
 
 THE END OF TIME. 
 
 And I saw another mighty Augcl come down from Heaven, 
 clothed w ith a cloud ; and a rainbow was upon his head ; and 
 he set his right foot upon the sea, and his left foot upon the 
 earth, and cried \^^th a loud voice. And the Angel which I saw- 
 stand upon the sea and upon the earth lifted up his hand to 
 Heaven ; and sware by Him that liveth for ever and ever, who 
 created Heaven, and the things that therein are, and the earth, 
 and the things that therein are, and the sea, and the things that 
 therein are, that there should be time no longer! 
 
 Revelations, Chap. x. 
 
 I SAW an Angel on a cloud, 
 
 Come floating through the air; 
 Tlie Heavens look'd like the world's dark shroud, 
 
 All blacken'd with despair : 
 With mighty stride he stalked forth. 
 Encompassing the south and north, 
 
 And eke the middle clime ; 
 Earth reel'd beneath his ponderous weight, 
 The ocean roU'd all agitate, 
 
 Tumultuous and sublime. 
 
 A garb of light he round him cast, 
 
 Blended with Heaven's pure blue ; 
 And thunder's blighting, withering blast, 
 
 He round his pathway threw : 
 Heaven's radiant arch entwined his brow 
 (Which shone forth with a heavenly glow
 
 THE EKD OF TIMF.. 221 
 
 Of majesty divine), 
 Seal of tlie Covenant firm and sure, 
 That ilirough all ages shall endure, 
 
 Until the end of time. 
 
 The Heavens drew back to let iiim pass, — 
 
 With terror hence tliey fled ; 
 All wither'd wo- the vernal grass, — 
 
 The sea laid bare its bed : 
 The mountains skipped to and fro, 
 Threat'ning the vales to overthrow, — 
 
 The troubled world did groan ; 
 The sun withdrew his glittering rays, 
 (Quenched beneath the brighter blaze, 
 
 That round the Angel shone. 
 
 l'j)on a mountain's rugged height 
 
 He tix'd his left foot sure, — 
 And on the ocean's waves so bright 
 
 Planted his right secure : 
 Willi arms uplifted to the sky, 
 He swore, by Him who reigns on high, 
 
 (iirded with might and power: 
 And who created earth and sea 
 In all their vast immensity, — 
 
 That — Time should be no more ! 
 
 l.arth quaked at the fatal sound, 
 
 And to its centre shook, — 
 It reach'd creation's utmost bound; 
 
 Then with majestic look. 
 He stretch'd his arm up to the sun, 
 And thence pull'd forth that mighty one, 
 
 And hurl'd him to the sea : 
 The moon grew pale with wild aflVight, 
 The stars withdrew their glimmering light, — 
 
 Tor light no more couhl be !
 
 222 THE EXD OF TIME. 
 
 The mountains melted to their base, 
 
 The Heavens fled away ; 
 The sea could find itself no place, 
 
 Where it might longer stay : 
 Mankind in wild confusion fled. 
 The living mingling with the dead, — 
 
 Thrones and dominions fell : 
 The huge ship sank into the wave, 
 Engulf 'd in ocean's yawning grave, — 
 
 Buried beneath its swell ! 
 
 The light still dim and dimmer grew. 
 
 Till swallow'd up in night ; 
 And then the Angel, to my view. 
 
 Shone like a meteor bright; 
 The tempest ceased its raging breath,- 
 AU nature yielded up to death, 
 
 The earth, the sky, the sea : 
 A dark cloud rose upon my sight, 
 And shrouded all in tenfold night, — 
 
 Twas blank Eternity ! 
 
 THE HEBREW MOTHER. 
 
 BY MRS. REMANS. 
 
 The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain. 
 When a young mother, with her firstborn, thence 
 Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 
 Unto the temple service. By the hand 
 She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
 Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
 INIet her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
 That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 
 To bring before her God.
 
 THE HEBRLW MOTHER. 223 
 
 So pass'd they on. 
 O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
 Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
 Like lulling rain-drops on the olive-boughs, 
 With their cold dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 
 Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest ; 
 Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
 That ^veigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 
 The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose. 
 As at a red flower's heart ; and w here a fount 
 Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades 
 Making its banks green gems along the wild, 
 There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave 
 Drawing clear water for l>€r rosy lips, 
 And softly parting clusters of jet curls. 
 To bathe his brow. 
 
 At last the Fane was reach'd, 
 The earth's one sanctuary : and rapture hush'd 
 Her bosom, as before her, through the day 
 It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 
 In light like floating gold — But when that hour 
 Waned to the farewell moment, when the lx)y 
 Lifted, through the rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
 Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, 
 Turn'd from thewhite-rolK'd priest, and round her arm 
 Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep s])ring-ti(l(' 
 Of nature then swell'd hitjh ; and o'er her child 
 Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds 
 (Jf weeping and sad song — " Alas!" she cried, 
 
 *^ Alas, my lK>y ! tliy gentle gasp is on me, 
 T\\e bright tears rjuiver in thy |>leading eyes, 
 
 And now fond thoughts arise. 
 And silver cords again to earth have won me, 
 And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 
 
 How shall I hence depart? —
 
 224 THE HEBREW MOTHER. 
 
 How the lone patlis retrace, where thou wert playing 
 So late along the mountains at my side ? 
 
 And I, in joyous pride, 
 By every place of flowers my course delaying. 
 Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 
 
 Beholding thee so fair ! 
 
 And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath 
 
 parted ! 
 Will it not seem as if the sunny day 
 
 Turn'd from its door away, 
 W'hile, through its chambers wandering weary hearted, 
 I lan^ish for thy voice, which past me still, 
 
 Went like a singing rill ? 
 
 Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, 
 W^hen from the fount at evening I return. 
 
 With the full water urn! 
 Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like murmurs greet me, 
 As midst the silence of the stars I wake, 
 
 And watch for thy dear sake. 
 
 And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, 
 Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 
 
 Wilt thou not vainly spread 
 Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee. 
 To fold my neck ; and lift up, in thy fear, 
 
 A cry which none shall hear ? 
 
 What have I said, my child? — will He not hear thee 
 Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? 
 
 Will He not guard thy rest. 
 And, in tlie hush of holy midnight near thee, 
 Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? 
 
 Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy 1
 
 THE HEBREW MOTHER. 225 
 
 I give thee to thy God ! — the God that gave thee, 
 A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 
 
 And precious as thou art, 
 And pure as dew of llermon, lie shall have thee, 
 My own, my beautiful, my andefiled ! 
 
 And thou shalt be His child ! 
 
 Therefore, farewell ! — T go ; my soul may fail me. 
 As the stag panteth for the water-brooks. 
 
 Yearning for thy sweet looks 1 
 But tiiou, my firstborn ! droop not, nor bewail me; 
 Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 
 
 The Rock of Strength— farewell !" 
 
 ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS. 
 
 IJY LI.ICU HUNT. 
 
 Ye dear companions of my silent hours. 
 Whose pages oft before my eyes would strew 
 So many sweet and variegated flowers — i 
 
 Dear Books, awhile, perhaps for aye, adieu ! 
 The dark cloud of misfortune o'er me lours : 
 No more by winter's fire — in summer's bowers. 
 My toil-worn mind shall be refresh'd by you : 
 Wl' part I sad thought ! and while the damp devours 
 Your leaves, and the worm slowly eats ihein through, 
 Dull Poverty and its attendant ills, 
 Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care, 
 And the world's cohl neglect, which surest kills, 
 Must be my bitter doom; yet I shall bear 
 T'nmurmuring, f<tr my good perchance these evils are. 
 
 l2
 
 226 
 
 NAPOLEON M0RIBUNDU3. 
 
 BY CHARLJ.5 MACARTHV. 
 
 Sume snperbiam 
 Quaesitam meriti?. 
 
 Yes ! bury me deep in the infinite sea, 
 
 Let my heart have a limitless grave ; 
 For my spirit in life was as fierce and free 
 
 As the course of the tempest-wave. 
 
 As far from the stretch of all earthly control 
 Were the fathomless depths of my mind > 
 
 A-nd the ebbs and flows of my single soul 
 Were as tides to the rest of mankind. 
 
 Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world, 
 
 As in life did the voice of my fame ; 
 And each mutinous billow that's sky-ward curl'd 
 
 Shall seem to re-echo my name. 
 
 Tliat name shall be storied in annals of crime 
 
 In the uttermost corners of earth ; 
 Now breathed as a curse — now a spell-word sublime. 
 
 In the glorified land of my birth. 
 
 Ay ! plunge my dark heart in the infinite sea ; 
 
 It would burst from a narrower tomb ; 
 Shall less than an ocean his sepulchre be 
 
 Whose mandate to millions was doom ? 
 
 I
 
 227 
 
 THE NORTH-WESTER. 
 
 h\ JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 They were the first 
 That ever burst 
 luto that silent sea! 
 
 Mid shouts that hail'd her from the shore 
 
 And bade her speed, the bark is gone, 
 The dreary ocean to explore 
 
 Whose waters sweep the frigid zone; — 
 And bounding on before the gale, 
 
 To bright eyes sliining throiigh their tears, 
 'Twixt sea and sky, lier snowy sail 
 
 A lessening speck appears. 
 
 Behold her next 'mid icy isles. 
 
 Lone wending on her cheerless way ; 
 'Neath skies where summer scarcely smiles, 
 
 Whose light seems but the shade of day. 
 But while the waves she wanders o'er. 
 
 Around her form they sink to sleep ; 
 The j)ulse of nature ihrobs no more — 
 
 She's chain'd witliin the deep ! 
 
 Then Hope for ever took her flight ; 
 
 Each face, as monumental stone, 
 Circw ghastly in the fading light 
 
 In which their latest sun went down ; 
 And ere its disk to darkness pass'd, 
 
 And closed their unrcturning day, 
 The seaman sought the dizzy mast. 
 
 To catch its latest rav.
 
 228 THE NORTH-WESTER. 
 
 All other secrets of their fate 
 
 From darkness would the Muse redeem ; 
 Unheard-of horrors to relate, 
 
 Which fancy scarce may dare to dream. 
 Thus much we only know— they died ; 
 
 All else oblivion veils, 
 And charnels of the waters wide. 
 
 That tell no babbling tales. 
 
 For them were wishes, longings, fears. 
 
 The sleepless night and ceaseless prayer, 
 Hope gleaming, rainbow-like, through tears, 
 
 And doubt that darken'd to despair 1 
 Suns, seasons, as they roll away, 
 
 No light upon the lost can shed. 
 Their tale a secret till the day 
 
 When seas give up their dead. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Where are now the dreaming flowei-s. 
 
 Which of old were wont to lie, 
 Looking upwards at the hours. 
 
 In the pale blue sky ? 
 Where's the once red regal rose? 
 
 And the lilt/, love-enchanted ! 
 And the pensee which arose 
 
 Like a thought, earth-planted ? 
 Some are wither'd — some are dead — 
 
 Others now have no perfume ; 
 This doth hang its sullen head. 
 
 That hath lost its bloom. 
 Passions, such as nourish strife 
 
 In our blood, and quick decay. 
 Hang upon the flower's life 
 
 Till it fades away.
 
 229 
 
 ON SEEING THE ENDYMION OF ALBANO. 
 
 The vcr>' music of his name has gone into my being. Ke.\T5. 
 
 I NEVER would have drawn Endymion thus — 
 He should have knelt on earth, a shepherd boy, 
 With vivid eye, and dark descending hair, 
 Thrown into light and beauty, by the beam 
 Of iier he worshiped — 
 
 His eye should have been fix'd, but not in sleep ; 
 Nor should the lid throw e'en a partial shadow : 
 Like a young, wild, untaught idolater, 
 There let him kneel; with curved and parted lip 
 As if he spoke to her who answer'd not — 
 With that unquiet brightness which betrays 
 A heart with its aspirings overwrought — 
 Hope in despair; and joyfulness and sorrow; 
 And death, with the disturbances of life : 
 All riving, glowing every lineament. 
 With hands uplifted, press'd above his brow. 
 And clust'ring ringlets resting in their palms; 
 Whilst his light raiment, silver'd by the Moon, 
 Floats with the unfelt wind — and let his flock 
 Roam idle down the' unguarded precipice, 
 And never more be folded. — 
 Oh ! who would close Endymion's eyes in sleep, 
 Or send down (hcnibs to the She|)herd boy ? 
 Or leave a healthful bloom uj)on that cheek 
 With vigils worn ? or let the (jueen of night 
 Withdraw her ray of loveliness from liim ? 
 Thou — thou All)ano! thou canst pencil well, 
 But false are thine imaginings — and thou 
 Canst shadow beauty — and be painter all : 
 But poet never. —
 
 230 
 
 THE CHANCE SHIP. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR WILSOX. 
 
 How beautiful upon the wave 
 
 The vessel sails, that comes to save ! 
 
 Fitting it was that first she shone 
 
 Before the wondering eyes of one, 
 
 So beautiful as thou. j| 
 
 See how before the wind she goes, ^ 
 
 Scattering the waves like melting snows ! 
 
 Her course with glory fills 
 
 The sea for many a league ! — Descending, 
 
 She stoopeth now into the vale, 
 
 Now, as more freshly blows the gale, 
 
 She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. 
 
 Oh ! whither is she tending ? 
 
 She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay; 
 
 As for her crew, how bless'd are they ! 
 
 See ! how she veers around ! 
 
 Back whirl the waves with louder sound ; 
 
 And now her prow points to the land : 
 
 For the Ship, at her glad lord's command, 
 
 Doth well her helm obey. 
 
 They cast their eyes around the isle : 
 
 But what a change is there ! 
 
 For ever fled that lonely smile 
 
 That lay on earth and air, 
 
 That made its haunts so still and lioly, 
 
 Almost for bliss too melancholy, 
 
 For life too wildly fair. 
 
 Gone — gone is all its loneliness. 
 
 And with it much of lovehness. 
 
 Into each deep glen's dark recess,
 
 Tin: CHANCE ship. 231 
 
 The day-shine pours like rain, 
 So strong and sudden is the ligl»t 
 Reflected from that wonder bright, 
 Now tilting o'er the main. 
 Soon as tiie thundering cannon spoke, 
 The voice of the evening gun 
 The spell of the enchantment broke, 
 Like dew beneath the sun. 
 Soon shall they hear liie' unwonted cheers 
 Of these delighted mariners. 
 And the loud sounds of the oar, 
 As bending back away they pull. 
 With measured pause, most beautiful. 
 Approaching to the shore. 
 For her yards are bare of man and sail, 
 Nor moves the giant to the gale ; 
 But, on the ocean's breast. 
 With storm-proof cables, stretching far, 
 There lies the stately Ship of War; 
 And glad is she of rest. 
 
 TEMPLE or JC PITER OLYMPIUS AT 
 ATHENS. 
 
 BY 1. K. HEnVEY. 
 
 Tilou art not silent ! — oracles are thine 
 Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears, — 
 Lingering, 'mid ruiti'd fane and broken shrine, 
 O'er many a tale and trace of other years ! 
 Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears 
 That warps thy cradle land — thine earthly love — 
 Where hours of hope, 'mid centuries of fears, 
 Have gleam'd, lightnings through the glo<»ni 
 above, — 
 Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove !
 
 232 TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS. 
 
 Thy column'd aisles with whispers of the past 
 Are vocal ! — and, along thine ivied walls, 
 While Elian echoes murmur in the blast. 
 And wild flowers hang, like victor-coronals, 
 In vain the turban'd tyrant rears his balls, 
 And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters, — 
 Now, even now, the beam of promise falls 
 Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters. 
 And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters ! 
 
 Thou art not silent ! — when the southern fair, 
 Ionia's moon *, looks down upon thy breast. 
 Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, 
 Soft as young beauty sootliing age to rest, 
 Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest; 
 And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, 
 Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, 
 Her lay — half hope, half sorrow — from the flowers. 
 And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers! 
 
 And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born 
 Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept 
 From him who waked Aurora every morn, 
 And sad as those he sung her till she slept ! 
 A thousand, and a thousand years have swept 
 O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring — 
 A wreck in youth f ! — nor vainly hast thou kept 
 Thy lyre ! Olympia's soul is on the wing. 
 And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string ! 
 
 ♦ Ionia was the name anciently given to Attica, and sometimes 
 to the whole of Achaia. 
 
 + The temple of Jupiter OljTnpius, at Athens, was commenced 
 l>j' Pisistratu?, on a scale of great magnificence, but never com- 
 pleted »
 
 2^3 
 
 TO MISS MITFORD. 
 
 BY MRS. nOFLAXD. 
 
 I SEND you mosses : — once they grew 
 
 On lofty Mell-Fell's hisrhest brow ; 
 They witness how I wisli'd for you 
 
 While gazing on the world below — 
 A world so fair, and yet so rude, 
 
 Your own sweet Blanche's wandering feet 
 Ne'er gain'd a deeper solitude, 
 
 Or found a more sublime retreat. 
 
 The sj)irit of the mountain smiled, 
 
 And as I trod the sleep ascent, 
 Fresh air and glowing beams beguiled 
 
 The toilsome way ; and oft I bent, 
 Half trembling, and with proud delight, 
 
 To find myself advanced so high. 
 That I had reach'd the envied height, 
 
 Where the green mountain kiss'd the sky. 
 
 The long clear lake before me spread — 
 
 A cr)'stal mirror, where, enshrined. 
 Tile cot, llie copse, the edge-bound mead, 
 
 Deep in the watery world reclined; 
 With such a soft reflected grace. 
 
 As youth's more brilliant tints disclose ; 
 When we the mother's beauties tr.ice 
 
 In her first girl — her blooming rose. 
 
 I look'd o'er glens and <lingle3 dank. 
 Where many a streamlet glides unseen ; 
 
 1 gazed on many a glowine bank, 
 
 Of golden furze and brackens green; —
 
 234 TO MISS MITFORD. 
 
 Then mountains piled on mountains rise, 
 
 Of every form and every hue ; 
 Here, huge Helvellyn meets the skies, 
 
 There, frowning Skiddaw towers to view : 
 
 And now, the mighty circle roimd, 
 
 A giant rampart strikes the sense, 
 Within whose limits scenes are found 
 
 Close to the sight, yet far, far hence ; 
 And scarcely can the dazzled eye, 
 
 Inebriate with its eager glance, 
 Distinguish what it can descry 
 
 Through such a vast and fair expanse. 
 
 Yes ! there is Hallstead's noble seat, 
 
 Reposing like the dappled fawn ; 
 The blue lake winds around its feet, 
 
 The dark oaks spot its emerald lawn: 
 Beneath gray Stybraw's cragg}' brow 
 
 (The mountain-queen of Patrick's dale). 
 Beams Asken's dwelling, sweetly low, 
 
 The shelter'd " lily of the vale." 
 
 But here in Rampsbeck's lovely dome ; — 
 
 The light smoke, curling through the trees, 
 Seems as if beckoning those who roam. 
 
 To rest them here in joyous ease ; 
 For ne'er was hospitable board 
 
 INIore freely given, more freely spread, 
 And ne'er was polish'd mind more stored 
 
 Than his who welcomes at its head. 
 
 My own dear home beneath my feet 
 Recalls the fond excursive flight ; 
 
 Yet, distant Penrith ! I must hail 
 Thy turrets red, thy dwellings white;
 
 TO MISS MITFORD. 235 
 
 For minds as pure, and hearts as warm, 
 
 Within those social dwellings rest : 
 Thine kindled love, thine beauty's charm, 
 
 And kindness to the stranger-guest. 
 
 The sun declines ; we must return ; — 
 
 But, ah, my giddy brain turns round ; 
 I cannot hear the trickling burn, 
 
 Nor dare I tread the slippery ground : 
 My dear com j)an ion's arm my stay, 
 
 She leads me trembling, falt'ring, blind, 
 Unused to such adventurous way, 
 
 Till the steep greensward path we tind. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas a wise and hardy wight. 
 
 Of nene untamed and sinews braced, 
 Tliat down the mountain's fearful height, 
 
 Tiiis side-long pathway boldly traced ; 
 The blood that warms my recreant veins, 
 
 From the same source its being gain'd, 
 But time, and sea, and southern plains. 
 
 The mountaineer's bold drops have drain'd. 
 
 Safe on the lower ground I stand, 
 
 Exulting in the labour past — 
 My sylvan prize is in my hand. 
 
 Which, Mitford ! at your feet I cast ; 
 Assured that e'en my humble lay 
 
 Tluit gentle bosom will not scorn, 
 Though genius |)Our'd the brilliant ray 
 
 Tliat your own truthful works adorn.
 
 •236 
 
 TO FANNY B., AGED THREE YEARS. 
 
 BY J. H. REYNOLDS. 
 
 Even so this happy creature of hersel'" 
 
 Is all sufficient; solitude to her 
 
 Is blithe society. Wordsworth. 
 
 As young and pretty as the bud 
 Of the strawberry' in the wood ; 
 As restless as the fawn that's there, 
 Playing like a thing of air, — 
 Chasing the wind, if there be any, — 
 Like these thou art, my little Fanny ! 
 
 I look on thee, and in thy face, 
 
 Tlie life is there of childish grace : 
 
 I see the silent thought that breaks 
 
 Into young smiles, as fancy wakes ; 
 
 And newly wing'd intelligence. 
 
 Trying its little flights from thence; 
 
 I see a strife 'twixt health and beauty, 
 
 Which shall the best achieve its duty ; 
 
 A gentle strife, for both contend. 
 
 But both, like bees, their labour blend. 
 
 Thy cheek by health is rounded well. 
 
 By its hand invisible ; 
 
 But sweet and rosy hues there are, 
 
 And you may trace young beauty there. 
 
 Health made thy gentle lips to be 
 
 So glad in their own company ; 
 
 So lavish of tlie cherr)''s dyes, 
 
 So like the leaf when autumn flies : — 
 
 But beauty claims thy young blue eyes ;
 
 TO FANNV B. 237 
 
 And oh, thy little light, soft hair, 
 Parted on thy forehead fair. 
 Doth seem to take its own delight 
 In leaning smooth and looking bright. 
 Thy figure small, and tiny feet. 
 Dotting the carpet round us, greet 
 Our hearts with joy, and feed the sense 
 Of love for utter innocence. 
 
 These beauties, Fanny, are to thee. 
 As yet, unknown society ; — 
 And so, they're a befitting dress 
 For thy mental prettiness ; — 
 For thy simple thoughts, that seem 
 Fragmenbi of a summer dream ; — 
 For thy merry lips' first sayings, 
 For thy fancy's fair}' strayings : 
 Thou art wiser far than many 
 That in years are richer, Fanny ! 
 
 The best of wisdom dwells with thee. 
 In thy white simplicity, — 
 In thy young imaginings. 
 Which fioat about on spotless wings ; 
 In thy pr.ittlings, kindly meant. 
 And in thy beautiful content. 
 Thine is the bloom of life, and wc 
 Are jarrers in society, — 
 Opposers of each otlier's pood, 
 I)e?<|Xjilors of all neighbourhood ; 
 Prone to pain, and serious folly, 
 And fnimers of self melancholy. 
 Thou dost wander light an<l free, 
 In thine own heart's company ; 
 Making mirth wherever chance 
 May lead thee in thy mazy dance ; 
 Like the linnet wild, that weaves 
 Glad liberty amid the leaves :
 
 238 TO FANNY B. 
 
 Little copyer of the lives 
 
 Of thy playmate relatives, — 
 
 Mocker of the elder ones, — 
 
 How thy wayward fancy runs, 
 
 By light from thine own laughing eyes, 
 
 Its circle of sweet mimicries. 
 
 Oft in thy little face, I find 
 
 The flitting shadows of the mind 
 
 Pass and repass, as thou dost tease 
 
 That mind with infant sophistries : — 
 
 And then, when no conclusion's near. 
 
 Thou, like a true philosopher, 
 
 Dost seek the joyous heart again, 
 
 And leave at rest the little brain. 
 
 Fare thee well, I've found in thee- 
 
 Blithe and sweet society ; 
 
 ^lerriment in drooping pain ; 
 
 Pictures given back again 
 
 Of the pranks of childishness. 
 
 Ere I tasted of distress. 
 
 Fare thee well ! may youth be slow 
 
 To pass from thee, who wear'st it so ; 
 
 For years are but the links of care, 
 
 To one so innocent and fair. 
 
 Around thee joy, within thee truth, 
 
 Thou'rt worthy of perpetual youth ; — 
 
 Worthy of that delight which lies 
 
 Within thy blue and pleasant eyes ; 
 
 Worthy thy mother'^s fond caressing : — 
 
 I owe thee, Fanny, many a blessing, 
 
 For pranks of kindliness and glee. 
 
 And words of childish charity ; 
 
 For pleasures generous, light, and many, — 
 
 And therefore do I bless thee, Fanny !
 
 239 
 
 IT WAS NUT FOR THE DIAMOND RING. 
 
 BY W. KENNEDY. 
 
 It was not for the diamond ring upon your lily hand, 
 It was not for your noble name, it was not for your 
 
 land, — 
 I saw no gem, no lordly name, no broad domain with 
 
 thee. 
 The day you stole ray trusting heart and peace of mind 
 
 from me. 
 You came — I knew not whence you came — we met — 
 
 'twas in the dance — 
 There was honey in each word of yours and glamour 
 
 in each glance. 
 Though many were around me then, I nothing saw 
 
 but him. 
 Before whose brow of starry sheen fresh fallen snow- 
 were dim. 
 You're gone ! — it was aweary night we parted at the 
 
 burn; 
 You swore by all the stars above that you would soon 
 
 return ; 
 That you would soon return, light love ! and I your 
 
 bride should be. 
 But backward will the burnie roll, ere you come back 
 
 to me. 
 They say that soon a smiling dame of lineage like to 
 
 thine. 
 Will take thee by the fickle hand, thy falsehood placed 
 
 in mine ; 
 The music and the rose red wine to greet her will 
 
 apj)ear — 
 For wedding song a sigh I'll have, for bridal pledge 
 
 a tear.
 
 \ 
 
 240 IT WAS NOT FOR THE DIAMOND RING. 
 
 O would that thou hadst pass'd me by in coldness or 
 
 in pride ! 
 Nor wrought this deadly wrong to her who on thy 
 
 truth relied : 
 The hunter's to the greenwood gone, his spear is in 
 
 its rest, 
 But he'll not wound the trusting dove that shelters in 
 
 his breast. 
 
 BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. 
 
 BY ALEXANDER RODGERS. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 And dinna be sae rude to me. 
 
 As kiss me sae before folk. 
 It wouldna' give me meikle pain. 
 Gin we were seen and heard by nane, 
 To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane ; 
 
 But gudesake ! no before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Whate'er you do when out o' view, 
 
 B€ cautious aye before folk ! 
 
 Consider, lad, how folks will crack, 
 And what a great affair they'll mak 
 O' naething but a simple smack. 
 
 That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Nor gi'e the tongue o' old and young 
 
 Occasion to come o'er folk.
 
 wrii.wr. Yornsr.L' beforf. folk. 241 
 
 I'm sure \vi' you I've been as free 
 As ony modest la&> should be; 
 Hut yet it doesna' do to see 
 
 .Sic freedom used before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 I'll ne'er submit again to it ; 
 
 So mind you that — before folk ! 
 
 Ve tell me that my face is fair: 
 It may be sae — I dinna care — 
 But ne'er attain gar't blush so sair 
 
 As ye hae done before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, 
 
 But aye be douce before folk ! 
 
 Ye tell me that my lips are sweet : 
 Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; — 
 At ony rate, it's hardly meet 
 
 To prie their sweets before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Gin that's the case, there's time and place, 
 
 But surely no before folk ! 
 
 But rr\t\ ye really do insist 
 That I should suffer to be kiss'd, 
 Gae get a license frae the priest, 
 
 And mak' me yours before folk ! 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, 
 
 Ye may tak' ten — before folk !
 
 ■24-2 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 In a young lady's heart once a secret was lurking ; 
 
 It toss'd and it tumbled, it long'd to get out; 
 The lips half betray'd it by smiling and smirking, 
 
 And the tongue was impatient to blab it, no doubt. 
 
 But Honour look'd gruff on the subject, and gave it 
 In charge to the teeth, so enchantingly white — 
 
 Should the captive attempt an elopement, to save it 
 By giving the lips an admonishing bite. 
 
 'Twas said, and 'twas settled, and Honour departed ; 
 
 Tongue quiver'd and trembled, but dared not rebel ; 
 When right to its tip, Secret suddenly started. 
 
 And, half in a whisper, escaped from its cell. 
 
 Quoth the teeth, in a pet, we'll be even for this ; 
 
 And they bit very smartly above and beneath ; 
 But the lips at that instant were bribed with a kiss, 
 
 And they popp'd out the Secret, in spite of the teeth. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY PERCY ROLLE. 
 
 Leaves quiver in the balmy air, the moon grows bright 
 
 above. 
 Beauty is beaming everj' where — 'tis just the hour for 
 
 love ! 
 So calm, so silent, I could deem beneath yon arch of 
 
 blue 
 Breathe none beside myself, dear love, the nightingale, 
 
 and you !
 
 SONG. ^-i.j 
 
 The mazy brook is whispering now, a soft tale to tlu 
 
 Howers, 
 The night breeze freshens on my brow,— how sweet 
 
 these moonlight hours ! 
 And sweet the twilight path that guides my footsteps 
 
 through the dew, 
 Each eve, to this green dell, my love, the nightingaU 
 
 and you ! 
 
 Now some seek halls of revelry, where flows the ruddy 
 
 wine ; 
 And merry may their banquet be, — a deeper joy is 
 
 mine ! 
 They choose companions many a one, 1 am content 
 
 with two, — 
 The nightingale and you, my love ! the nightingale 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 BY ISMAF.L I ITZADAM. 
 
 A Pri.GuiM of the Harp was he, 
 With half a heart for chivalry ; 
 Tlie lone, the marvellous, the wild. 
 Had charm'd his sj)irit, man and child; 
 Graduate in nature's eldest school, 
 (if forms all grand and beautiful ; 
 Her manuscript, divinely wrought, 
 Ciod's own miraculous Polyglot, 
 Speaking n> one all languages — 
 lie studied — rocks, and stars, and seas 
 But chief the deep his worship won. 
 The illimitable ocean — nursed thereon ;
 
 244 A SKETCH FROM LIFE, 
 
 With all its workings — maniac hoar, 
 
 Even for that madness loved the more ; 
 
 Kin elements, his moody mind, 
 
 A portion of the wave and wind ; 
 
 And oft the boy would try to weave 
 
 His wonder into shapes of song; 
 
 And feeling still would only grieve, 
 
 To find he did his feelings wrong. 
 
 He loved, as minstrel elf must prove, 
 
 For song itself was born of love ; 
 
 So the young glow, and melting shower 
 
 Of April, animate the flower, — 
 
 Perfume, and suppliance of an hour, — 
 
 Too exquisitely loved to last. 
 
 Such curse upon the lyre is cast. 
 
 Brief must they feel, who feel the spell 
 
 Of love too sensitively well ; 
 
 As fires of sudden vividness 
 
 Exhausted by their own excess. 
 
 And such the wreath his passion braided. 
 
 For many a bosom bright but vain : 
 
 Like cistus bloom, scarce blown till faded, 
 
 Scarce faded till full-blown again ! 
 
 Short-lived alike the bliss and pain, 
 
 Thus still adored, he still endured. 
 
 Wandering for ever, never cured. 
 
 His was indeed such wayward doom. 
 
 As seldom 'gainst man's sins is hurl'd ; 
 
 His horoscope was dash'd with gloom, 
 
 His cloud came with him to the world. 
 
 And clipp'd him round, and weigh'd him down, 
 
 A deep, revokeless malison !
 
 ■24o 
 
 TO A PROFILE. 
 
 BY BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 I KNEW thee not! then VNherefore gaze 
 
 I'pon thy silent shadow there, 
 Whicli so imperfectly portrays 
 
 The form thy features used to wear ? 
 Vet have I often look'd at thee, 
 As if those lips could speak to me. 
 
 1 knew thee not ! and thou couldst know, 
 
 At best, but little more of one 
 Wjiose pilgrimage on earth below 
 
 Commenced, just ere thine own was done 
 For few and fleeting days were thine, 
 To hope or fear for lot of mine. 
 
 Yet few and fleeting as tliey were, 
 
 Fancy and feeling picture this. 
 They prompted many a fervent prayer, 
 
 Witness'd, perchance, a parting kiss ; 
 And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee. 
 At such a period, profit me? 
 
 Whether they did or not, I owe 
 At least this tribute to thy worth ; 
 
 Though little all I can bestow. 
 Vet fond afllection gives it birth ; 
 
 And prompts me, as thy shade I view, 
 
 To bless thee, whom 1 never knew !
 
 246 
 
 THE UNBENDING. 
 
 BY W. MOTHERWELL. 
 
 Too proud of heart to tell the grief 
 That chains thy harrow'd soul, 
 Too little school'd in grief to bear 
 Thy own stern pride's control ; 
 With flushing cheek and restless eye 
 Thy woman's heart hath told, 
 Far easier thou in love hadst died, 
 Than in despair grow cold. 
 
 All beautiful ! in the full grace 
 
 Of thine unsullied thought; 
 
 An angel that love sought to teach. 
 
 But woman's self when taught ; — 
 
 Thy bosom where youth showers its sweets 
 
 And coronals of light ; 
 
 Thy brow and dewy lips are still 
 
 As eloquent and bright : 
 
 But troubled is the fountain where 
 That light of bliss was bom ; 
 And thou hast taught thy heart to hate, 
 To save thyself from scorn: 
 Faithful thou hadst been in thy truth, 
 Faitluul through good and ill ; 
 But, being left to live unloved, 
 Thou'dst make that doom thv will. 
 
 Still in the world thy path will be. 
 And still thy brow will wear 
 Roses as bright as ever wreathed 
 Their blossoms 'mid thy hair ;
 
 THE UNBENDING. 247 
 
 But for thy pride and seeming calm — 
 Thy vainly borne disguise — 
 No rest shall ever soothe thy soul, 
 No friendship glad thine eyes. 
 
 But lonelier than thy lonely heart 
 
 Thy very home shall be, 
 
 Nor gentle smile, nor household voice. 
 
 Shall e'er seem sweet to thee ; 
 
 And on from youth to womanhood 
 
 Thy weary days shall haste, 
 
 Tiiy happiest feelings turn'd to gall — 
 
 Thy life itself a waste ! 
 
 THE TUNEFUL SPIRIT. 
 
 When Evening o'er the western hill 
 
 Her robe of puri)le and gold has tlung ; 
 When every zephyr is hush'd and still, 
 
 And every bird hiis its vesper sung, 
 I'll seek once more the lonely bower. 
 
 Where late I heard that melting strain ; 
 And haply, at the same sweet hour, 
 
 The tuneful Spirit may sing again. 
 
 And if perchance, in gazing round 
 
 Among the leaves, a young face I view. 
 Oh ! how my bosom with joy will bound 
 
 To hnd that Spirit has beauty too ! 
 And sure as ever gentle heart 
 
 Had bliss in soothing a lover's pain. 
 Ere morning bids us kiss and part, 
 
 I'll make her ])romise to sing again.
 
 248 
 
 MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 
 
 No circling hills may sweeping form 
 
 A boundary for thee ; 
 Nor woods, defying time and storm, 
 
 Thy ramparts proudly be ; 
 Nor winding waters amply stream, 
 Fair as the wrapt enthusiast's dream, 
 Steal through thy sun-bright vales. 
 
 The crowded mart, the noisy street, 
 
 The busy hum of men — 
 A scene where things familiar meet. 
 
 Unknown of poet's pen; 
 These may be thine — unhallow'd, rude. 
 And thine a " peopled solitude," 
 Ungenial and unloved. 
 
 And yet no sun-bright valley fair. 
 No mounlain-screen'd domain, 
 
 No glen, or grove, or waters clear, 
 Can bind in strong link'd chain. 
 
 The heart as thou, amid the din, 
 
 Tlie chaos from without, w ithin, 
 And lost to Nature's charms. 
 
 'Tis thine to whisper to the heart. 
 Of childhood's happy dawn. 
 
 Of joys that with our youth depart. 
 Of Love's bewitching morn ; 
 
 And thine to speak of playmates fled, 
 
 Of friends removed, estranged, or dead- 
 A wild and spectral train. 
 
 And thine to 'wake the voice of Love, 
 
 Long silent in the tomb ; 
 Of parent love ! — pure as above, 
 
 The love in worlds to come !
 
 MY FATHER b HOUSE. 240 
 
 And thou, the scene of births and death, 
 Of burial, and of bridal, hast 
 
 A voice, none else may claim. 
 
 Oh ! many are the storms that roll 
 Their waters o'er the mind — 
 
 Many the waves that threat the soul 
 By this world's griefs refined, 
 
 To bury in their depths profound. 
 
 Association's hallow'd mound, 
 Thoughts, recollections fond; 
 
 Yet, in the might of love sublime. 
 One spot undimm'd ai)pears — 
 
 One consecrated spot — no time 
 From Memory's tablet tears; 
 
 My father's house ! shrine of the best, 
 
 And holiest earthly love, confess'd, 
 Artection's dearest home. 
 
 CJuilt may have sear'd, ill fortune worn, 
 
 The sympathies away ; 
 Yet will remembrance fondly turn. 
 
 And own the boundless sway 
 Of parent love ! — the while will be 
 Tiie heart's unsullied sanctuary, 
 A father's house confess'd. 
 
 Fairer, a thousand times more fair, 
 May show full many a scene. 
 
 Than that which gave us birth ; but there, 
 Oh, tliL-re's one spot green ! 
 
 The OiLsis of the desert waste. 
 
 With more than scenic beauty graced, 
 Impervious to decay. 
 
 .M 2
 
 250 
 
 THE CYPRESS. 
 
 BY MISS LANDOX. 
 
 Thou graceful tree, 
 With thy green branches drooping. 
 As to yon blue heaven stooping. 
 In meek humility. 
 
 Like one who patient grieves, 
 When winds are o'er thee sweeping. 
 Thou answerest but by weeping ; 
 While tear-like fall thy leaves. 
 
 When summer flowers have birth, 
 And the sun is o'er thee shining ; 
 Yet with thy slight boughs declining. 
 Still thou seek'st the earth. 
 
 Thy leaves are ever green : 
 When other trees are changing, 
 With the seasons o'er them ranging ; 
 Thou art still as thou hast been. 
 
 It is not just to thee. 
 For painter or bard to borrow 
 Thy emblem as that of Sorrow ; 
 Thou art more like Piety. 
 
 Thou wert made to wave, 
 Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee, 
 Lowly when Summer suns restore thee, 
 Upon the martyr's grave. 
 
 Like that martyr thou hast given 
 A lesson of faith and meekness, 
 Of patient strength in thy weakness. 
 And trust in Heaven !
 
 251 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 UY WILLIAM KENNEDY. 
 
 (> TUiNK it not Strange that my soul is shaken 
 
 By every note of thy simple son<^; 
 These tones like a summoning spell awaken 
 
 The shades of feelings that slumber'cl long : 
 'lliere's a hawthorn tree near a low-roof 'd dwelling, 
 
 A meadow green and a river clear, 
 A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling, 
 
 And a form unforgotten, — they all are here. 
 
 They are here, with dark recollections laden, 
 From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea ; 
 
 They speak of the time when I left that maiden 
 By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree. 
 
 We parted in wrath ; — to her low-roof'd dwelling- 
 She turn'd with a step which betray 'd her pain ; 
 
 She knew not the love that was fast dispelling 
 The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain. 
 
 We met no more; — and her faith was plighted 
 
 To one who could not her value know ; 
 The curse which still clings to affections blighted 
 
 Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe. 
 And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken — 
 
 The shatles of feelings which slumber'd long; 
 Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken 
 
 lU- every note of thy simple song.
 
 252 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name — ■ 
 There is grief in the sound — there were guilt in the 
 
 fame; 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
 The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
 Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 
 
 cease ? 
 We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain — 
 We must part, we must fly, to unite it again. 
 
 Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ; 
 Forgive me, adored one — forsake if thou wilt; 
 But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased, 
 And man shall not break it, whatever thou mayst. 
 
 And stem to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
 
 My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ; 
 
 And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 
 
 sweet, 
 With thee by my side, than the world at our feet. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
 Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all we resign, 
 Thy lips shall reply not to them, but to mine.
 
 253 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 
 
 BY MISS JEWSBURY. 
 
 I SAW him oil the battle eve, 
 
 When like a king he bore him ! 
 Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, 
 
 And prouder chiefs before him : 
 The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, 
 The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 
 
 No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; — 
 He look'd around him, and liis eye 
 Defiance flash'd to earth and sky ! 
 
 He look'd on ocean, — its broad breast 
 
 Was cover'd with his fleet; 
 On earth, — and saw from eiLSt to west 
 
 His banner'd millions meet: 
 While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast. 
 Shook with the war-cry of that host, 
 
 The thunder of their feet ! 
 He heard the imperial echoes ring — 
 
 I saw him next alone ; — nor camp, 
 Nor chief his steps attended. 
 
 Nor banners blaze, nor coursers' tramp, 
 With war-cries proudly blended : — 
 
 He stood alone, whom Fortune high 
 
 So lately seem'd to deify. 
 
 He, who with Heaven contended. 
 
 Fled, like a fugitive and slave; 
 
 Behind, the foe, — before, the wave!
 
 154 THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 
 
 He Stood, — fleet, army, treasure gone, 
 
 Alone, and in despair! 
 While wave and wind swept ruthless on. 
 
 For thei/ were monarchs there ; 
 And Xerxes in a single bark. 
 Where late his thousand ships were dark, 
 
 Must all their fury dare; — 
 Thy glorious revenge was this, 
 Thi/ trophy, deathless Salamis ! 
 
 THE SONG OF PERDITA. 
 
 The nest of the dove is rifled — 
 
 Alas !— Alas !— 
 The dream of delight is stifled, 
 
 And all that was 
 Of beauty and hope is broken — 
 
 But words will flee, 
 Tliough truest were ever spoken — 
 
 Alas, for me ! 
 
 His words were as fragrant ever 
 
 As flowers to bees ; 
 His voice like the mournful river — 
 
 But streams will freeze ! 
 Ah ! where shall I fly, deceived ? 
 
 Ah ! where — where rest ? 
 I am sick, like the dove bereaved,— 
 
 And have no nest !
 
 255 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEV, 
 
 Slimbeu lie soft on thy beautiful eye ! 
 
 Spirits whose smiles are — like thine — of the sky, 
 
 Play tliee to sleep with their visionless strings, 
 
 Brighter than thou — but because tiiey have w ings ! 
 
 — Fair as a being of heavenly birth, 
 
 But loving and loved as a child of tiie earth ! 
 
 Wiiy is that tear ? Art thou gone, in thy dream. 
 To the valley far off, and the moon-lighted stream, 
 \N here the sighing of tlowers, and the nightingale's 
 
 song, 
 Flings sweets on the wave, as it wanders along ? 
 Blest be the dreams that restores them to thec^ 
 But t/iou art the bird and the roses to me ! 
 
 And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone, 
 And ])ear thy low breathing, and know thee mine own. 
 And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale. 
 And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale, 
 I blame not the fate that has taken the rest. 
 While it left to my bosom its dearest and best. 
 
 Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye ! 
 
 Love b^* a rainbow to brighten thy sky ! 
 
 Oh! not for sunshine and hope would I ])art 
 
 \N ith the shade time has Hung over all — /*/// thi/ In art ! 
 
 Still art thou all which thou wert when a child. 
 
 Only more holy — and only less wild !
 
 256 
 
 LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 BY G. M. FITZGERALD. 
 
 They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for u 
 
 bride. 
 That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom 
 
 by thy side ; 
 And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's 
 
 calmer tone, 
 As they give thee to another's arms — their beautiful 
 
 — their own. 
 
 I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet. 
 And it always seem'd to me as though a joyous crowd 
 
 were met 
 To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing 
 Lay aside her maiden gladness — for a name — and for 
 
 a ring. 
 
 And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other 
 
 hearts thy love. 
 And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies 
 
 above ; 
 Yet thou, when I behold thee next, may'st wear upon 
 
 thy brow. 
 Perchance, a mother's look of care, for that which 
 
 decks it now. 
 
 And when I think how often I have seen thee, with 
 
 thy mild 
 And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a 
 
 child.
 
 MXES TO A YOUNG LADY. 257 
 
 Oh! Iiow mournfully, how mournfully the thought 
 
 comes o'er my brain, 
 \Vhen I think thou ne'er may'st be that free and girlish 
 
 thing again. 
 
 I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be 
 
 my lay, 
 And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a nmsic 
 
 like the May ; 
 But it may not be ! — within my breast all frozen are 
 
 the sprmgS; 
 
 Tlie murmur dies upon the lip — the music on tlie 
 strings. 
 
 But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in 
 
 my rest, 
 That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be 
 
 thy guest. 
 That thy life shall be a summer's day, whose eveniny 
 
 shall go down, 
 Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never 
 
 knows a frown. 
 
 When thy foot is at the altar, when the rin<^ hath 
 
 press'd thy hand, 
 When those thou lov'st, and those that love thee, 
 
 weeping round thee stand, 
 Oh! may the verse that friendship weaves, like a 
 
 spirit of the air, 
 Be o'er thee at that moment — for a blessing and a 
 
 prayer 1
 
 258 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 BY W. KENNEDY. 
 
 The forfeit's paid, — we pardon thee, — 
 
 Thy faults shall fade away ; 
 The beauty of thy memory 
 
 Will never know decay. 
 Thy errors, like a cloud or two, 
 Upon a hea%-en of holiest blue, 
 
 But intercept the ray. 
 To make its fervour less intense, 
 For trembling mortals' shrinking sense. 
 
 The monarch of the melody 
 
 Is risen from his throne. 
 And who shall lead the harmony, 
 
 When he, our feast, hath flown ? 
 His harp obeys no stranger hand, 
 Nor have we one whose chords command 
 
 The wild heart-piercing tone. 
 That swell'd above each heavy hymn 
 Of those, who would have rival'd him. 
 
 Attendant on the minstrel's form 
 
 A band of spirits came, 
 From earth and air, in calm and storm, 
 
 In water and in flame ; 
 The children of the Universe 
 Obey'd the magic of his verse, 
 
 And, at his will, became 
 Thino^s lovely, to the wondering eyes 
 Which srloried in their mvsteries.
 
 259 
 
 He died too, as he wisli'd to die, 
 
 A fair and full grown tree, 
 Whose stem shot proudly to the sky, 
 
 And bloom'd luxuriantly. 
 No dotage of a slow decay, 
 No canker of rebellious clay, 
 
 E'er tix'd its taint on thee; 
 Thy spirit sprang Irom its abode, 
 In summer beauty to its God. 
 
 And in that latest loneliest hour. 
 
 When human aid is vain, 
 There lives for me a thought with power 
 
 To sootiie the sense of pain. 
 The consciousness that I shall be 
 In realms of immortality, 
 
 Permitted to obtain 
 A place in thy community 
 Whh those who most resemble thee. 
 
 STANZAS FOR EVENING. 
 
 BY LAMAX ULANCIIARP. 
 
 There is an hour when leaves are still, and winds 
 
 sleep on the wave ; 
 When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath 
 
 found a grave ; 
 And stars that at the note of dawn begin their circling 
 
 Hight, 
 K(;turn, like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs 
 
 of night. 
 
 The curtains of the mind are closed, and slumber is 
 
 most sweet, 
 And visions to the hearts of men direct their fairy feet ;
 
 260 STANZAS FOR EVENING. 
 
 The wearied wing hath gaiii'd a tree, pain sighs itself 
 
 to rest, 
 And beauty's bridegroom lies upon the pillow of her 
 
 breast. 
 
 There is a feeling in that hour which tumult ne'er hath 
 known, 
 
 Which nature seems to dedicate to silent things alone ; 
 
 The spirit of the lonely wakes, as rising from the dead, 
 
 And tinds its shroud adorn'd with flowers, its night- 
 lamp newly fed. 
 
 Tlie mournful moon her rainbows hath, and mid the 
 blight of all 
 
 That garlands life, some blossoms live, like lilies on 
 a pall ; 
 
 Thus while to lone affliction's couch some stranger- 
 joy may come, 
 
 The bee that hoardeth sweets all day hath sadness in 
 its hum. 
 
 Yet some there are whose fire of years leaves no 
 remember'd spark, 
 
 Whose summer-time itself is bleak, whose very day- 
 break dark. 
 
 The stem, though naked, still may live, the leaf though 
 perish'd cling ; 
 
 But if at first the root be cleft, it lies a branchless thing. 
 
 And oh ! to such, long, hallow'd nights their patient 
 
 music send ; 
 The hours like drooping angels walk, more graceful 
 
 as they bend ; 
 And stars emit a hope-like ray, that melts as it comes 
 
 nigh. 
 And nothing in that calm liath life that doth not wish 
 
 to die.
 
 261 
 
 FAREWELL TO WALES. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear. 
 Farewell ! and a blessing be with thee, green land ! 
 ( )n thy halls, on thy hearths, on thy pure mountain air, 
 < )n the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand ! 
 From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed. 
 Whilst I leave thee, oh land of my home and my dead ! 
 
 1 bless thee ! yet not for the beauty which dwells 
 In the heart of thy hills, on the waves of thy shore; 
 And not for the memory- set deep in thy dells 
 Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore; 
 And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, 
 (ireen land, poet land of my home and my dead ! 
 
 I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat 
 Where'er a low hamlet smiles under thy skies; 
 For thy peasant hearths burning the stranger to greet, 
 For the soul that looks forth from thy children's kind 
 
 eyes ! 
 May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee bespread, 
 (ireen land of my childhood, my home, and my dead ! 
 
 THE RHINE. 
 
 TiiF, Rhine! the Rhine! — May on thy flowing river 
 
 The sun for ever shine ! 
 And on thy banks may freedom's light fade never ! — 
 
 He l)lessings on the Rhine ! 
 Tlie Rhine ! the Rhine ! — My fancy still is straying, 
 
 To dre.im of Wilhelmine, 
 Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing: — 
 
 He blessings on the Rhine!
 
 262 THE RHINE. 
 
 The German knight the lance has bravely broken 
 
 By lofty Schreckenstein ; 
 The German maid the tale of love has spoken 
 
 Beside the flowery Rhine, 
 With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is fired, 
 
 Beside that stream of thine; 
 The dull Batavian, on thy banks inspired, 
 
 Shouts, — Freedom! and the Rhine! — 
 And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman ! — ■ 
 
 Though Europe should combine, — 
 The fier}' Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Roman, 
 
 Found graves beside the Rhine. — 
 Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses 
 
 With Hochheim's sparkling wine, 
 And drink, — while life, and love, and beauty passes,- 
 
 Be blessings on the Rhine ! 
 
 THE DYING GLADIATOR. 
 
 Will then no pitying sword its succour lend fl 
 
 The Gladiator's mortal throes to end ? 
 To free the' unconquer'd mind, whose generous power 
 Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour ! 
 
 Bow'd low, and full of death, his head declines, 
 Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines ; 
 Still glares his closing eye with angry light. 
 Now glares, now darkens, with approaching night. 
 
 Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast, — 
 'Tis vengeance visible, and pain suppress'd ; 
 Calm in despair, in agony sedate. 
 His proud soul wrestles with o'ermastering fate ; 
 That pang the conflict ends ! — he falls not yet. 
 Seems every nerve for one last effort set,
 
 THE DYING GLADIATOR. 263 
 
 At once by death, death's lingering power to brave, 
 He will not sink, but plunge into the grave; 
 Exhaust his mighty heart in one kist sigh, 
 And rally life's whole energy to die ! 
 
 Unfear'd is now that cord wliich oft ensnared 
 The baffled rival whom his falchion spared ; 
 Those clarions mute, which on the murderous stage 
 Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage; 
 Once poised by peerless migiit, once dear to fame, 
 The shield which could not guard, supports his frame ; 
 His fix'd eye dwells upon the faithless blade. 
 As if in silent agony he pray'd : — 
 " Oh might I yet, by one avenging blow. 
 Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe !" 
 \'ain hope ! the streams of life-blood fast descend, 
 Tliat giant arm's upbearing strength must bend ; 
 Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray 
 One dastard sign of anguish or dismay ; 
 With one weak jilaint to shame his parting breath. 
 In pangs sublime, magnirtcent in death ! 
 
 But his were deeds unchronicled ; his tomb 
 
 No patriot wreathes adorn, to cheer his doom ; 
 
 No soothing thoughts arise of duties done, 
 
 Of trophied concjuests for his country won ; 
 
 And he, whose sculjjtured form guve deathless fanu 
 
 To Ctesilas — he dies without a name ! 
 
 Haply to grace some Caesar's pageant prich; 
 
 The hero-slave or hireling champion died ; 
 
 When Rome, degenerate Rome, for barbarous shows 
 
 Barter'd her virtue, glory, and re|)Ose ; 
 
 Sold all that freemen prize ;is great and good, 
 
 For pomp of death, and theatres of blood !
 
 264 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE POET SHELLEY 
 
 The clouds were gathering red and dark, 
 And the big rain dropp'd heavily : 
 
 The Poet leap'd into his bark, 
 And straight put forth to sea. 
 
 They watch'd him from the foamy shore, 
 As the waves broke on his prow : 
 
 They never thought to see him more ; 
 They shrank to see him now. 
 
 But he had nothing of their dread ; 
 
 He valued not his mortal breath, 
 Save that within his soul it bred 
 
 Such thoughts as know not death. 
 
 His joy was in all wondrous forms. 
 
 Alike of beauty and of fear; 
 In love or ire, in calms or storms, 
 
 He still was in his sphere. 
 
 But most of all was his delight 
 
 In Nature's works of wonderment ; 
 
 And oft at the cold dead of night, 
 Thus o'er the floods he went. 
 
 He went to hear the wild winds howl. 
 In iierce expectance of their prey ; 
 
 Like a lean herd of wolves that prowl 
 About the traveller's way. 
 
 He went to listen to the fall 
 
 Of the huge breakers' white cascade, 
 
 Now rising on the billowy wall. 
 Now underneath it laid :
 
 DEATH OF THE POET SHELLEY. Jlj.S 
 
 To see the storm-flash fright the gloom, 
 And the tlik;k shades a moment sever; 
 
 He went to hear the sea-knell boom. — 
 He went, and went for ever. 
 
 The tempest and its wrath were gone. 
 But he return'd not w itii the calm ; 
 
 They look'd for him from morning's dawn, 
 Till evening's hour of balm. 
 
 And hope still linger'd, when at last 
 One slow wave roU'd upon the strand 
 
 A broken helm, a shiver'd mast; 
 And then his fate was scann'd. 
 
 They knew him dead, yet they shoidd ne'er 
 Have seen the death-gloom on his face. 
 
 NVhy did they seek, — to find him there, 
 In the worm's foul embrace ? 
 
 They did not hide him in the earth. 
 Half of his form even now was clay ; 
 
 And those who loved him from his birth, 
 Turn'd sickening thence away. 
 
 But on the beach a funeral fire, 
 
 Just when die tide was down, they lit; 
 
 Then laid the corpse u|)on its pyre. 
 And the flames kindled it. 
 
 Tliere were pale cheeks and throbbing eyes 
 
 Around, too full to shed a tear; 
 And there were those mute, heaving sighs 
 
 Wa rather see than hear. 
 
 His scatter'd ashes they inurti'd, 
 
 And each sad friend to his own door 
 
 In deepest thoughlfidness return'd, 
 But spake of him no more. 
 
 LYRE. N
 
 266 
 
 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS 
 
 AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASK1*S BANNER. 
 
 The standaiil of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the 
 attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, wa? ci 
 crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, 
 in Pennsylvania. 
 
 When the dying flame of day. 
 Through the chancel shot its ray, 
 Far the glimmering tapers shed 
 Faint light on the cowled head, 
 And the censer burning swung, 
 V»'here before the altar hung 
 That proud banner, which with prayer 
 Had been consecrated there. 
 And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard tlie while, 
 Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle. 
 
 Take thy banner ! — may it wave 
 Proudly o'er the good and brave, 
 When the battle's distant wail 
 Breaks the sabbath of our vale, — 
 V\'hen the clarion's music thrills 
 To the hearts of these lone hills, — 
 When the spear in conflict shakes, 
 And the strong lance shivering breaks. 
 
 Take thy banner ! — and beneath 
 The war-cloud's encircling wreath, 
 Guard it — till our homes are free — 
 Guard it — God will prosper thee ! 
 In the dark and trying hour, 
 In the breaking forth of power. 
 
 I
 
 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NIXS. '207 
 
 III the rush of steeds and men, 
 
 His right liand will shield thee then. 
 
 Take thy banner ! But when night 
 
 Closes round the ghastly fight, 
 
 If the vanquish 'd warrior bow, 
 
 Si)are him ! — By our holy vow, 
 
 By our prayers and many tears, 
 
 By the mercy that endears; 
 
 Spare him — he our love hath sliared — 
 
 Spare him — as thou wouldst be spared ! 
 
 Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
 Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
 And the muffled drum should beat 
 To the tread of mournful feet, 
 Then this crimson Hag shall be 
 Martial cloak and shroud for thee! 
 
 And the warrior took that banner proud, 
 And it was his martial cloak and shroud. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE FLOWER. 
 
 Fair flower of silent night ! 
 
 Unto thy bard an emblem thou shouldst be 
 His fount of song, in hours of garish light, 
 
 Is closed like thee. 
 
 But, with the vesper hour, 
 
 Silence and solitude its depths unseal : 
 Its hidden springs, like thy unfolding flower, 
 
 Their life reveal.
 
 268 THE NIGHTINGALE FLOWER. 
 
 Were it not sweeter still 
 
 To give imagination holier scope. 
 And deem that thus the future may fulfill 
 
 A loftier hope ? 
 
 That, as thy lovely bloom 
 
 Sheds round its perfume at the close of day, 
 With beauty sweeter from surrounding gloom, 
 
 A star-like ray : — 
 
 So in life's last decline, 
 
 When the grave's shadows are around me cast. 
 My spirit's hopes may like thy blossoms shine 
 
 Bright at the last; 
 
 And, as the grateful scent 
 
 Of thy meek flower, the memory of my name ! 
 Oh ! who could wish for prouder monument, 
 
 Or purer fame i 
 
 The darkness of the grave 
 
 Would wear no gloom appalling to the sight, 
 Might Hope's fair blossom, like thy flowret, brave 
 
 Death's wintry night. 
 
 Knowing the dawn drew nigh 
 
 Of an eternal, though a sunless day, 
 
 Whose glorious flowers must bloom immortally, 
 Nor fear decay !
 
 269 
 
 A LAST REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 HY W. KENNEDY. 
 
 1 NrvEU more shall see thee, 
 
 Except as now I see, 
 In musings of the midnight hour, 
 
 W hile fancy revels free. 
 I shall never hear thy welcoming, 
 
 Nor clasp thy thrilling hand, 
 Nor view thy home, if e'er again 
 
 I seek our common land. 
 
 1 have thee full before me, 
 
 Thy mild but mournful eye, 
 And brow as fair as the cold moon 
 
 Tliat hears thy secret sigh. 
 There are roses in thy window. 
 
 As when I last w as there ; 
 But where has fled the matchless one 
 
 Thy young cheek used to wear? 
 
 Though parted, maid, long parted. 
 
 And not to meet again, 
 One star hath ruled the fate of both. 
 
 And sear'd our hearts with pain. 
 And though before tiu- altar 
 
 I may not call liu-e bride. 
 Accept a token of the bond 
 
 By which we are allied. 
 
 I've found for thee an emblem 
 Of what hath fallen on me — 
 
 A leafless branch, that lately crown'd 
 A li^jdilning stricken tree.
 
 270 A LAST REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Torn from the pleasant stem it loved, 
 
 The severing scar alone 
 Remains, to show that e'er it grew 
 
 Where it for years had grown. 
 
 For pledges of affection 
 
 I'll give thee faded flowers ; 
 And thou shalt send me wither'd leaves 
 
 From autumn's naked bowers. 
 Tlie tears of untold bitterness 
 
 I'll drink instead of wine. 
 Carousing to thy broken peace — 
 
 Do thou as much for mine. 
 
 Whene'er a passing funeral 
 
 Presents its dark array, 
 For thee, my maiden desolate, 
 
 I will not fail to pray. 
 Beneath the quiet coffin-lid 
 
 'Twere better far to sleep. 
 Than live to nurse the scorpion Care 
 
 Within thy bosom deep. 
 
 The midnight wind is grieving ; 
 
 Its melancholy swell 
 Doth make it meet to bear to thee 
 
 Thy lover's last farewell. 
 Farewell, pale child of hopelessness ! 
 
 'Tis something still to know 
 That he who cannot claim thy heart, 
 
 Partakes of all its woe.
 
 71 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 BY I.OUU 1 II r II LOW. 
 
 May, queen of blossoms, 
 And fulfilling flowers, 
 
 With what pretty music 
 Shall we ciiarm the hours ? 
 
 Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 
 
 Blown in tiie open mead ? 
 
 Or to the lute give heed 
 In the green bowers? 
 
 Thou hast no need of us, 
 
 Or pipe or wire, 
 lliat liast the golden bee 
 
 Ripen'd witli fire ; 
 And many thousand more 
 Songsters, that thee adore, 
 rilling earth's grassy floor 
 
 With new desire. 
 
 Thou hast thy mighty herds. 
 
 Tame, and free livers; 
 Doubt not, thy music too 
 
 In the deep rivers; 
 And the whole plumy flight. 
 Warbling the day and night — 
 l.'p at the gates of light. 
 See, the lark cjuivers! 
 
 When with liie Jacinth 
 Coy fountains are tress'd ; 
 
 And for the mournful bird 
 (ireen woods are dress'd. 
 
 That did f«}r Tereus pine; 
 
 Then shall our songs be ihino, 
 
 To whom our hearts incline : 
 jNIav, be thou blcss'd !
 
 / 
 
 272 
 
 THE DEAD INFANT. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 — " It is not dead, but sleepeth!" 
 
 A'es ! this is Death ? but in its fairest form, 
 And stiipt of all its terrors; — that closed eye 
 
 Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm 
 That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality I 
 
 Yes ! this is Death ! — but like a cherub ""s sleep, 
 So beautiful — so placid ; — -who, of earth, 
 
 (And tasting earthly cares), would wish to weep 
 O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth ? 
 
 Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand 
 Had learn'd to fashion forth yon lovely thing, 
 
 Pale as the chisell'd marble; — here command 
 Those beauties tliat defy all Art's imagining ! 
 
 The still, calm brow — the smile on either cheek, 
 The little folded hands, — the lips apart. 
 
 As though they would the bonds of silence break, 
 Are they not models fair, meet for the sculptor's art f 
 
 Proud Science, come ! learn of this beauteous clay, 
 That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign, 
 
 As though in slumber's downy links it lay, 
 Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again ! 
 
 Yes! this is Death! but in its fairest form, 
 And stript of all its terrors. — That seal'd eye 
 
 Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm 
 That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality !
 
 273 
 
 THE ESCAPED CONVICT. 
 
 )JV CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 He trod Ins native land, 
 
 The bright land of the free ; 
 His forehead wore a seared brand - 
 
 Impress of infamy ! 
 His brow — where youth and beauty met — 
 Ves, there the seal of guilt was set. 
 
 He gazed upon the vale, 
 
 Where sjjring-tide flowerets slept, 
 liock'd by the wiiisj)ers of the gale; 
 
 He saw it — and he wept: 
 Like drops which page a storm they came, 
 Tears born in agony and shame. 
 
 Morn sat upon the hills. 
 
 But she look'd cold and dim ; 
 Clouds, like a pall which death conceals, 
 
 Hung frowning there on him : 
 .Ml, e'en his loved, his mother land, 
 Scowl'd on his forehead, and the brand. 
 
 My sire ! my sire ! he groan 'd ; 
 
 My home \ my lovely one ! — 
 \Vhat sire .' he hath his child disown'd ; — 
 
 What home f I — I have none : 
 I hear all curse — I see all shun ; — 
 Yet curse not you ! not you — your son ! 
 
 I saw her struck, whose cheek 
 Uid myriad sweets disclose; 
 Whose eyes, whose form — but whercfurn speak- 
 I saw! — mv heart-blood n>s<':
 
 274 THE ESCAPED COX VICT, 
 
 She loved me — she was sworn my bride ; 
 I stabb'd the Striker, and he died ! 
 
 For this the record lies, 
 Festering upon my brow ; 
 For this — the rabble mock'd my cries ; 
 
 For this — shame haunts me now ; 
 For this — half wither'd must I be, 
 Ere my dead brow from stain is free. 
 
 I\Iy own, my beauteous land, 
 Land of the brave — the high ; 
 I a>k'd but this, of Fate's stern hand — 
 
 To see thee, and to die ! 
 O yes, my country, let me be. 
 In my last hour — in death — with thee. 
 
 The Moon look'd on the vale, 
 Wearing her starry wreath, 
 And soft display 'd a form, that, pale, 
 Lay there alone — with death : 
 The Zephyrs drew a lengthened sish, 
 And slow the Convict's corse pass'd by 
 
 'Twas said, that lovely night, 
 A spirit youth was seen, 
 
 Gliding among the iiowerets bright, 
 
 The trees, and meadows green ; 
 
 And chiefiy by a cot ; and there 
 
 It wept, and melted into air. 
 
 i
 
 275 
 
 THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE 
 
 BY DELTA. 
 THE VISION. 
 
 I ( ALL upon thee in the night, 
 
 Wlien none alive are near ; 
 1 dream about thee with deli'^lit, — 
 
 And then thou dost appear 
 Fair, as the day-star o'er the hill, 
 When skies are blue, and winds arc still. 
 
 Thou stand'st before me silently, 
 
 The spectre of the past ; 
 The trembling azure of thine eye, 
 
 Without a cloud o'ercast; 
 ( aim as the pure and silent deep, 
 When winds are hush'd and waves asleep. 
 
 Thou 'gazest on me ! — but thy look 
 
 Of angel tenderness, 
 So pierces, that I less can brook 
 
 1 han if it spoke distress, 
 Or came in anguish here to me 
 '\k) tell of evil boding theel 
 
 Around thee robes of snowy white, 
 Willi viririn tiiste are thrown ; 
 
 And at thy breast, a lily bright. 
 In benuty scarcely blown : — 
 
 Calmly thou gazest — like the moon 
 
 I'pon the leafy woods of June.
 
 276 THE LEGE>D OF GENEVIEVE. 
 
 The auburn hair is braided soft 
 
 Aboye tliv snowy brow : — 
 Why dost thou gaze on me so oft ? , 
 
 I cannot follow now ! ■ 
 
 It would be crime, a double death w 
 
 To follow thy forbidden path. 
 
 But let me press that hand again, 
 
 I oft have press'd in love, ; 
 
 When sauntering through the grassy plain, •. 
 
 Or summer's evening grove ; - 
 
 Or, pausing, as we mark'd afar, | 
 The twinkling of the evening star. 
 
 It is a dream, and thou art afone ; 
 
 The midnight breezes sigh ; 
 And downcast — sorrowful — alone — 
 
 With sinkina: heart, I lie 
 To muse on days, when thou to me 
 Wert more than all on earth can be ! 
 
 Oh ! lonely is the lot of him, 
 
 Whose path is on the earth, 
 And when his thoughts are dark and dim, 
 
 Hears only vacant mirth ; 
 A swallow left, when all his kind 
 Have cross'd the seas and wing'd the w ind.
 
 277 
 
 THE PIXIES OF DEX'ON. 
 
 BY X. T. CARRINOTON. 
 
 The act- of pixios, like that of chivalry, is gone— There is, perhap?, 
 at present, fcarcely a lioiise, wliich they are reputed to visit. 
 Even the tields ami lanes which they formerly frequented iseeni 
 to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard ; and they 
 a|>pedr to have forgotten to attend their ancient tnidniirht dance. 
 
 Drew's Cou.nwali.. 
 
 Tnr.Y are flown, 
 Beautiful fictions of our fatlters, wove 
 Iti Superstition's web when TiitJe was young, 
 And fondly loveil and cherish'd ;— they are flown, 
 Before the wand of Science ! Hills and vales, 
 Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost 
 The enchantments, the delights, the visions all, 
 The elfin visions that so bless'd the sight 
 In the old days romantic. Nought is heard, 
 Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains, — 
 \'oices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and bro<jk, 
 And waterfall ; the day is silent else, 
 And niglit is strangely mute ! the hymnings high — 
 The immortal music, men of ancient times 
 Hoard ravislt'd oft, are Hown ! O ye have lost, 
 Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs, 
 That dwelt in your grciMi s(jlitudcs, and tiU'd 
 The air, the fields, with beauty and \\ith joy, 
 Intense; — with a rich mystery that awed 
 The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths 
 Divinest tales, that throunh the enchanted year 
 1 ound passionate listeners ! 
 
 The very streams 
 Brighten'd with visitings of these so sweet
 
 278 THE PIXIES OF DEVON. 
 
 Ethereal creatures ! They were seen to rise 
 From the charni'd waters, which still brighter grew 
 As the pomp pass'd to land, until the eye 
 Scarce bore the unearthly glor}\ Where they trod 
 Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, 
 And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, 
 Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes 
 Look'd on their revels all the luscious night; 
 And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms 
 Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, 
 Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp 
 Elysian ! 
 
 And by gifted eyes were seen 
 Wonders — in the still air ; — and beings bright 
 And beautiful, more beautiful than throng 
 Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now 
 The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale 
 (Jf the sweet summer noon. Anon they touch'd 
 The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades 
 Seem'd greener, fairer, — and the enraptured woods 
 Gave a glad leafy murmur, — and the rills 
 Leap'd in the ray for joy ; and all the birds 
 Threw into the intoxicating air their songs, 
 All soul. The ver\' archings of the grove, 
 Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age, 
 Lighteu'd with living splendours ; and the flowers, 
 Tmged with new hues, and lovelier upsprung 
 By millions in the grass, that rustled now 
 To gales of Araby ! 
 
 The seasons came 
 In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade ; 
 The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased 
 These potent elves. They steer'd the giant cloud 
 Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash 
 Came down in death or sport ; ay, when the storm 
 Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings,
 
 I 111 rixn.s or in von. 279 
 
 The tempest; and, anon, they rein'd its ra'j:e 
 In iis fierco mid career. But ye liave tiown, 
 Beautiful tictions of our fathers! — flown 
 Before tlie wand of Science, and the liearllis 
 Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year. 
 Are passionless and silent ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 BY HENRY NEELE. 
 
 Ills was the master spirit; at his spells 
 
 The heart 'j:ave up its secrets : like the mount 
 
 Of Iloreb, smitten by the rrophel's rod, 
 
 Its hidden s])rings gush'd forth. Time, that gray rock 
 
 < )n whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards 
 
 Is dash'd to ruin, was the pedestal 
 
 On which his CJenius rose; and, rooted there, 
 
 Stands like a miglity statue, rear'd so high 
 
 A1)0\ e the clouds, and changes of the world, 
 
 That Heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams 
 
 Have roun<l its awful brows a glory shed 
 
 Immortal us their own. Like those fair birds 
 
 Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions 
 
 Beam liuhi on that dim world they leave behind, 
 
 And while they spurn, adorn it; so his spirit 
 
 His * dainty spirit,' while it soar'd above 
 
 This dull, gross compound, scatter'd as it flew 
 
 Treasures of light and loveliness. 
 
 And these 
 Were ' gentle Shnkspeare's' features; this the eye 
 Whence earth's least earthly mind look'd out, and 
 flash'd
 
 280 LINES ox SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Amazement on the nations ; this the brow 
 
 Where lofty thought majestically brooded, 
 
 Seated as on a throne ; and these the lips 
 
 That warbled music stolen from heaven's own clioir 
 
 When seraph harps rang sweetest. But I tempt 
 
 A theme too hi'jjh, and mount like Icarus, ■ 
 
 On wings that melt before the blaze they worship. * 
 
 Alas ! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild ! 
 
 Else should the eye, whose wandering gaze is fix'd 
 
 Upon this breathing Inisf, awaken strains 
 
 Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck 
 
 From Memnon's ruin'd statue : the rapt soul 
 
 Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes 
 
 ' Discourse most eloquent music' 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 When its wild passion-waves are luU'd to rest ; 
 And the eye views life's fairy scenes depart, 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away ; 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet. 
 But hope is round us with her angel lay. 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early 
 power. 
 
 In youth, the cheek was crimson'd with her glow, 
 Iler smile was loveliest then ; — her matin song 
 Was Heaven's own music, and the note of woe 
 Was all unheard her Eden bowers among.
 
 STANZAS. 281 
 
 Life's little world of bliss was newly born : 
 
 We knew not — cared not — it was born to die — 
 
 I'lush'd w ith the breeze : wet with the dews of morn ; 
 
 With dancin<j: heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 
 And mock'd the passing clouds that dimni'd its blue — 
 
 Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting, and as ftw. 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too : On the eye 
 Half realised her early dreams burst bright ; 
 Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, 
 Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; 
 And though at times might lour the thunder storm, 
 And the red lightnings threaten — still the air 
 Was balmy with her breath ; and her loved form, 
 Tlie rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen ; 
 Her wreath, the summer flower; her robe, of summer 
 green. 
 
 But, though less dazzling in her twilight dress. 
 
 There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 
 
 That angel smile of trancjuil loveliness 
 
 Which the mind dreams of, glowing on her brow ; 
 
 That smile will mingle with the evening star 
 
 That jioinfs our destined tomb ; nor e'er depart 
 
 Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 
 
 And hush'd tin- last deep lioating of tlu- heart. 
 
 The meteor bearer of our parting breath — 
 
 A moonbeam in the midnight storm of death.
 
 2ft2 
 
 THE STUDENT. 
 
 At midnight, in his lonely room, 
 
 The toil-worn student sate, 
 His genius flashing 'mid the gloom 
 
 Of darkly gathering fate, 
 Like lights that gleam around the dead. 
 
 Laid in their last cold rest — 
 The shadowy streams of light that spread 
 
 Round wandering souls unbless'd. 
 
 He lean'd his burning brow upon 
 
 His cold and trembling hand. 
 And thou gilt on hours of rapture gone, 
 
 Far in his native land ; 
 Hours when he held communion high 
 
 With loved ones now no more. 
 And worship'd 'neath the starry sky. 
 
 On his own island's shore. 
 
 The forms of all that once were dear 
 
 Came thronging round his heart. 
 Like angel shadows that appear 
 
 In deserts far apart ; 
 But every lip was mute and pale. 
 
 And every eye was dim, 
 And they pass'd on to death's lone vale, 
 
 Where waii'd the funeral hymn. 
 
 He wander'd back to earlier years, 
 
 And happier scenes afar ; 
 And dream'd he saw those welcome tears, 
 
 Which the heart's offering are ;
 
 THE STUDENT. 283 
 
 liut, as he gazed, the scene became 
 
 All darkness on his eye, 
 And voices shriek'd aloud his name, 
 
 Far o'er the midnight sky. 
 
 The lij;ht, that lon^ had beam'd among- 
 
 The louring shades of woe, 
 Grew dim — the spirit, high and strong, 
 
 Aspired no more below ; 
 He felt that life's last hope had fled, 
 
 A great, a good man's fame. 
 And that he hasted to the dead. 
 
 Where all men are the same. 
 
 Like moonlight, o'er a marble tomb, 
 
 The sun of being seem'd ; 
 Lore shone no m<jre amid the gloom 
 
 Where glory once had beam'd ; 
 Earth unto him brought no delight, 
 
 Time was an age of woe; — 
 .Slowly he fled where all is night. 
 
 But sleep — like none below. 
 
 AUTUMN FJ.OWrUS. 
 
 Tiiosr. few pale Autumn flowers! 
 
 How beautiful they are ! 
 Than all that went before, 
 Tliau all tlie summer store, 
 
 How lovelier far! 
 
 And why? — They are the Inst — 
 The htst ! — the lasi !— the last ! 
 
 O, by that little word, 
 
 How many thoughts are stirr'd ! 
 That sister of the piust !
 
 284 AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
 
 Pale flowers ! — Pale perishing flowers ! 
 
 Ye're types of precious things ; 
 Types of those bitter moments, 
 That flit like life's enjoyments, 
 
 On rapid, rapid wings. 
 
 Last hours with parting dear ones 
 (That time the fastest spends), 
 
 Last tears, in silence shed. 
 
 Last words, half uttered, 
 Last looks of dying friends ! 
 
 Who but would fain compress 
 
 A life into a day; 
 The last day spent with one, 
 Who, ere the morrow's sun. 
 
 Must leave us, and for aye 1 
 
 O, precious, precious moments ! 
 
 Pale flowers 1 ye're types of those — 
 The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! 
 Because, like those, the nearest 
 
 Is an eternal close. 
 
 Pale flowers ! — Pale perishing flowers ! 
 
 I woo your gentle breath ; 
 I leave the summer rose 
 For younger, blither brows. 
 
 Tell me of change and death 1 
 
 I
 
 285 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. 
 
 The sun is warm, tlie sky is clear, 
 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent light 
 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 
 Like many a voice of one delight — 
 
 The winds, the birds, the ocean floods : 
 The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. 
 
 I >ee the Deep's untrampled floor 
 
 With green and purple seaweed strown ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore. 
 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : 
 1 sit upon the sands alone, 
 
 Tiie liglitning of the noontide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 
 Arises from its measured motion. 
 How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 
 
 Alas! I ha\o nor hope nor health, 
 
 Nor peace within nor calm around. 
 Nor that content surpassing wealth, 
 
 The sage in meditation fovuid, 
 And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure'. 
 ( )lhers I see whom these surround — 
 
 Smiling they live, and call life pUasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
 
 286 STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild, 
 
 Even as the winds and waters are : 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 
 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne and yet must bear, 
 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
 Some might lament that I were cold, 
 
 As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
 Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 
 
 Insults with this untimely moan ; 
 They might lament — for I am one 
 
 Whom men love not : — and yet regret, 
 Unlike this day, which, when the san 
 
 Shall on its stainless glory set. 
 Will linger, though enjoy 'd, like joy in memory yet. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM, 
 
 BY JOHN MALCOLM. 
 
 As sweeps the bark before the breeze. 
 
 While waters coldly close around, 
 Till of her pathway through the seas 
 
 The track no more is found ; 
 Thus passing down Oblivion's tide, 
 
 The beauteous visions of the mind 
 Fleet as that ocean pageant glide. 
 
 And leave no trace behind.
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY S ALUL M. 287 
 
 TJul the pure page may still impart 
 
 Some dream of feeliiiir, else untold, — 
 The silent record of a heart, 
 
 E'en when that heart is cold : 
 Its lonj? memorials here may bloom, — 
 
 Perchance to gentle bosoms dear. 
 Like flowers that linger o'er tiie tomb 
 
 Bedew'd with Beauty's tear. 
 
 I ask not for the meed of fame, 
 
 The wreath above my rest to twine, — 
 Enough for me to leave my name 
 
 Within this hallow'd shrine ; — 
 To think that o'er these lines thine eye 
 
 May wander in some future year. 
 And Memory breathe a passing sigh 
 
 For him who traced them here. 
 
 Calm sleeps the sea when storms are o'er, 
 
 With bosom silent and serene, 
 And but the plank upon the shore 
 
 Reveals that wrecks have been. 
 So some frail leaf like this may be 
 
 Left floating on Time's silent tide, — 
 The sole remaining trace of me, — 
 
 To tell I lived and died.
 
 288 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 BY MISS BOWLES. 
 
 The thought of early death was in my heart, 
 Of the cold grave, and " dumb forgetfuhiess ;" 
 
 And with a weight like lead. 
 
 An overwhelming dread 
 Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. 
 
 And forth I roam'd in that distressful mood, 
 Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; 
 
 All hung with one huge cloud, 
 
 Tliat like a sable shroud 
 On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. 
 
 Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms 
 (Instinctively my feet had wander'd there), 
 And through that awful gloom, 
 Headstone and altar tomb 
 Among the dark heaps gleam'd with ghastlier glare . 
 
 Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood ; 
 Mine eyes fast fix'd on a grass grown mound ; 
 
 As though they would descry 
 
 The loathsome mystery 
 Consummating beneath that charnel ground. 
 
 Death, death was in my heart — Methought I felt 
 A heavy hand that press'd me do%\-n below — 
 
 And some resistless power 
 
 Made me, in that dark hour, 
 Half long to be, where I abhorr'd to go. 
 
 i
 
 THE CHURCHYARD. 2«.> 
 
 Then suddenly — albeit no breeze was felt — 
 
 Through the tall tree-tops ran a shiverin.j sound — 
 
 Forth from tiie western heaven 
 
 Flash'd out the Haming levin, 
 And one long thunder peal roU'd echoing round. 
 
 Une long, long echoing peal, and all was peace — 
 Cool rain-drops genini'd the herbage — large and 
 few ; 
 And that dull vault of lead 
 Disparting overhead, 
 Down beam'd an eye of soft celestial blue. 
 
 And up toward the heavenly portal sprang 
 A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain ;-^ 
 Up from my very feet — 
 And Oh ! liow clear and sweet 
 Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. 
 
 •' Blithe, blessed creature! take me there witli thee," 
 1 cried in spirit — passionately cried — 
 
 But higher still, and higher 
 
 Hang out that living lyre. 
 As if the bird disdain'd me in its pride. 
 
 And I was left below, but now no more 
 
 Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Niuhi ; 
 
 Up with the skylark's lay 
 
 My soul had winiiM its way 
 To the supernal source of Life and Light.
 
 290 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 There i* no such thing as forgetfiiig possible to the mind. .A 
 thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our 
 present, conscious, and the secret inscriptions of the mind ; but 
 alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains f<>i 
 ever."— English Opilm Eater. 
 
 Rust from thy griefs ! thou art sleeping now ; 
 
 The moonlight gleam is upon thy brow ; 
 
 All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 
 
 Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest, 
 
 Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 
 
 When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd farewell. 
 
 Rest ! — the sad memories that through the day 
 AVith a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, — 
 The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 
 That bow thee as ^^^nds bow the willow's head — 
 The yearnings for voices and faces gone — 
 All are forgotten !— sleep on — sleep on ! 
 
 Are they forgotten ? — no, 'tis not so — 
 Slumber divides not our hearts from woe ; 
 E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
 Like lights and shades over waving grass. 
 Tremblest thou, dreamer? — Oh, love and grief, 
 Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf. 
 
 On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 
 
 As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 
 
 On tlie long silken lashes that fringe thine eye 
 
 There's a large tear gathering heavily ; — 
 
 A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd, — 
 
 Sorrowful dreamer, this is not rest !
 
 THE DRr.AMKR. 29 
 
 It is Thought at work amidst busied hours, 
 
 It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers; — 
 
 Oh, we bear within us mysterious things 
 
 Of memor)' and angui^li, unfathom'd springs, 
 
 And ])assion, tliose gulfs of the heart to fill 
 
 With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 
 
 Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
 Flinging the peace of our couch away ; 
 Well mi.jht we look on our souls in fear. 
 They find no fount of oblivion here ; 
 They forget not the mantle of sleep beneath — 
 How know we if under the wings of death ? 
 
 THE FAMILY PICTURE. 
 
 n\ SIR AlUREY DE VERE, BART. 
 
 Wi lu work in hand, perchance some fairy cap, 
 To deck the little stranger yet to come; 
 One rosy boy struggling to mount her lap — 
 The eldest studious, with a book or map; — 
 Her timid girl beside, with a faint bloom, 
 Coiming some tale — while, with no gentle tap, 
 Yon chubby urchin beats his mimic drum, 
 Nor heeds the iloublful fi;own her eyes iissume. 
 So sits the mother! \\ith h( r fondest smile 
 Regarding her sweet little ones the while. 
 And he, the happy man ! to whom belong 
 'i'hese treasures, feels their living charm beguile 
 All mortal cares, and eyes the j)rHttling throng 
 With rapture-rising heart, and a thanksgiving ton.
 
 292 
 
 THE GRAVE OF KORNER. 
 
 BY MRS. IIEMA^S. 
 
 Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrateil young German poet and 
 soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French 
 troops, on the 26th of August, 1813, a few honrs after the compo- 
 sition of his popular piece, " The Sword Song." He was buried 
 at the village of Wobbelin, in Mecklenburgh, under a beautiful 
 oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses, 
 composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monu- 
 ment erected to his memory beneath this tree, is of cast iron, 
 and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and ssurd, a favourite 
 emblem of Korner's, from which one of his Works had been 
 entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, 
 who died of griuf for his loss, having only sur\ived him long 
 enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial- 
 place. Over the gate of the cemetry is engraved one of his own 
 lines: — " Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht."— Forget tiot the faithful 
 dead,— See Downes' Letters from Mecklenburgh, and Koraer's 
 Prosaische Aufsatze, &:c. Von C. A. Tiedge. 
 
 Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest ! 
 Thou that beneath its crowning foHage sleepest, 
 And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
 Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest ! 
 Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills w^as pour'd, 
 Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 
 
 Rest, bard ! rest soldier ! — By the father's hand 
 Here shall the child of after years be led, 
 With his wreath-offering silently to stand 
 In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead ! 
 Soldier and bard ! — for thou thy path hast trod 
 With freedom and with God !
 
 THE GRAVE OF KORNER. 293 
 
 The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite, 
 On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, 
 And with true heartr^, thy brethren of the ti^ht 
 Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee. 
 And the deep guns, witli rolling peals, gave token 
 That Lyre and Sword were broken ! 
 
 Thou hast a hero's tomb ! — A lowlier bed 
 Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying ; 
 The irentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head, 
 \\'heu thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
 Brother! true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
 She pined to share thy grave. 
 
 Fame was thy gift from others — but for her, 
 To whom the wide earth held that only s])ot, 
 S/if loved thee! — lovely in your lives ye were. 
 And in your early deaths divided not ! 
 Thou hast thine oak — thy trophy, — what hath she ? 
 Her own bless'd place by thee ! 
 
 It was thy spirit, brother! which had made 
 The l)riv,dit world <j;lorious to her thouuhtlul eye. 
 Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd. 
 And sent glad sini^inu tiirouixh the free blue sky ! 
 Ye were but two ! — and wlu.ii that s[)irit pass'd, 
 Woe for the one, — the last ! 
 
 Woe, yet not long! — She linger'd but to trace 
 Thine image from the image in her breast; 
 Once, once again to see that buried face 
 But smile upon her, ere she went to rest ! 
 Too sad a smile! — its living liudit was o'er, 
 It answer'd hers no more !
 
 204 THE GRAVE or kouner. 
 
 The earth grew silent when thy voice departed. 
 The home too lonely whence thy step had lied ; 
 What then was left for her, the faithful hearted t 
 Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead! 
 Softly she perish'd — be the flower deplored 
 Here, with the Lyre and Sword ! 
 
 Have ye not met ere now? — So let those trust 
 That meet for moments but to part fur years ; 
 That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, 
 That love where love is but a fount of tears ! 
 Brother ! sweet sister ! — peace around ye dwell ! 
 Lvre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 
 
 She is not fair to outward view, 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness I never knew, 
 
 Until she smiled on me : 
 Oh, then I saw her eye was bright — 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold. 
 To mine they ne'er reply; 
 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 The love-light in her eye : 
 
 Her very frowns are better far 
 
 Than smiles of other maidens are ! 
 
 I
 
 295 
 
 I'RIXCE WILLIAM OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The nu-lanclioly di-ath by sliijmTeck of this >oiiiig Prince ha* 
 often been heUI up to coinniiseration. His fate may, however, 
 9tigge»t other i<leas than those of mere compassion, when it ir 
 recollected he had frequently declared that when he c.ime t<i tli< 
 throne of England, he would In-at the Kn<>lish as slaves, aiiiJ 
 reduce them to the comlilion of braslj* of burdetu 
 
 Prince William's bark swept on, 
 Witli soHiT and trii input -claufr, 
 
 And loudly for Kiiiii Ikiin's sou 
 The shout of welcome rang, 
 
 lie trod the deck with all 
 
 A future monarch's pride ; 
 And his stately form grew yet more tall 
 
 As Albion's cliffs he eyed. 
 
 He thought upon the hour 
 
 When his unfetter'd hand 
 Should stretch the rod of regal power 
 
 About the sea-girt land. 
 
 But hate, and wrath, and cruelly 
 Glared tiercely in his frown ; 
 
 " Her sons are all loo proud and hiirh; 
 I'll tame thf ir spirits down : 
 
 -' Like oxen they shall drag 
 The plough for us, their lords ; 
 
 And if they dare rebel or Hau, 
 
 \N e'll spur them with our Nwords."
 
 PRINCE WILLIAM OF ENGLAND. 
 
 And loud the Normans laugh'd 
 
 The Prince's words to hear ; 
 And many a Briton deeper quaff 'd 
 
 To hide his scorn — not fear. 
 
 But youthful hearts soon spring 
 
 Above reflection's sway, 
 Forgotten was the future King, 
 
 As the wine-cup circled gay. 
 
 Swift rush'd the vessel on, 
 And France was left behind ; 
 
 And cloudless was the summer sun. 
 And soft the summer wind : 
 
 And loud and louder round 
 
 Rose song and shout of glee, 
 For wlio could dream that danger frown'd 
 
 With sucli a sky and sea I 
 
 But three long days have past. 
 
 And still upon the main 
 King Henry's anxious eyes are cast, 
 
 To seek his son — in vain. 
 
 lie lay the waves beneath; 
 
 And many an ocean gem 
 Was round his brow — a mockery wreath 
 
 For England's diadem.
 
 A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. 
 
 Alas ! the days of Chivalry are fled ! 
 
 The brilliant tourtuiment exists no more ! 
 (hn loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, 
 
 And courting is a most enormous bore ! 
 
 In those good " olden times," a '' ladye bright " 
 Might sit within her turret or her bower, 
 
 While lovers sang and play'd without all night, 
 And deem'd themselves rewardeil by a flower. 
 
 Vit, if one favour'd swain would persevere, 
 In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh, 
 
 IVrchance she threw him, with the closing year, 
 An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf. 
 
 And he a thousand oaths of love would swear, 
 As, in an ecstasy, he caught the jirize ; 
 
 Then would he gallop ofl", the Lord knows where, 
 Telling another thousand monstrous lies : — 
 
 .\ll picturing her matchless beauty, which 
 He might discern, I ween, not much about, 
 
 Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch, 
 As she between the lattice peeped out. 
 
 ( )ftthen, away he'd ride o'er sea and land, 
 And dragons fell and mighty giants smite. 
 
 With the tough spear he carried in his hand : 
 And all to prove himself her own true knight. 
 
 Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he, 
 Were all employ'd iihout the selfsame thing; 
 
 And when each had rode hard for his *' ladye," 
 They all came back and met within a ring. 
 
 o 2
 
 298 A LAMEXT FOR CHIVALRY. 
 
 Wliere all the men who were entitled " syr " 
 Appear'd with martial air and haughty frown , 
 
 Bearing " long poles, each other up to stir*," 
 And, in the stir up, thrust each other down. 
 
 And then they gallop'd round with dire intent, 
 Each knight resolved another's pride to humble ; 
 
 And laughter rang around the tournament 
 As oft as any of them chanced to tumble. 
 
 And when, perchance, some ill-stavr'd wight miglit 
 die, 
 
 The victim of a stout unlucky poke, 
 Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye, 
 
 The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke. 
 
 Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain 
 Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole, 
 
 Bedeck'd him kneeling with a golden chain, 
 And plighted trotli before the motley whole. 
 
 Then tmmpets sounded, bullocks whole were dress'd. 
 Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were 
 seen ; 
 
 'iNIid clamorous shouts the happy pair were bless'd, 
 For Chivalrj' won Beauty's chosen queen. 
 
 And when fair daughters bloom'd like beauteous 
 llowers, 
 To bless the gallant knight and stately dame, 
 They shut them up within their lonely towers, 
 
 That squires might fight for them and win them 
 fame. 
 
 * See Lady Morgan's chivalric defiance to the knight* of tin 
 inky plume.
 
 A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. 290 
 
 But maidens now from hall and park are brought, 
 Like Covent Garden flowers, in lots, to town : 
 
 No more by prowess in the lists 'tis sought — 
 Beauty's the purchase of the wealthiest clown ! 
 
 Alas ! the days of Chivaliy are fled ! 
 
 The brilliant tournament exists no more ! 
 Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, 
 
 And even courtship is a dreadful bore ! 
 
 SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 
 
 BV MRS. UEMAXS. 
 
 A (Jreek islander being taken to the Vale of Tcinpe, and c.iUvd 
 upon to admire its beautiful »eener>', repliuil, ' Ves, all i:* fair; 
 but the 8ca— where i? it ?' " 
 
 WnLRL is the sea? — I languish here — 
 
 \Vhere is my own blue sea.' 
 With all its barks of fleet career, 
 
 And flags and breezes free ! 
 
 I miss that voice of waves — the flrst 
 
 That woke my childish glee: 
 The measured cliime — the thundering btirst — 
 
 Where is my own blue sea ' 
 
 Oh ! rich your myrtles' breath may riNf, 
 
 Soft, soft, your winds maybe ; 
 Yet my sick heart within me dies — 
 
 Where is ray own blue sea? 
 
 1 hear the shepherd's mountain fl 
 I hear the whispering tree — 
 
 Tlie echoes of my soul are mute- 
 Where is mv own blue sea / 
 
 \\\>\
 
 300 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like tliis, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that 1 am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 
 And it makes his pulses fly, 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walk'd the world for fourscore years, 
 
 And they say that I am old ; 
 And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told. 
 It is very true — it is very true — 
 
 I'm old, and " I 'bide my time " — 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on ! play on ! I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the tin-ill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smother'd call ; 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go, 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place. 
 
 And my pulse is beating slow ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness. 
 
 To see the young so gay.
 
 301 
 
 AUTUMNAL LEA\ ES. 
 
 AiTLMXAL leaves, Autumnal leaves, 
 Tliat gently rustle 'neath my tread. 
 
 Oh how the afflicted spirit grieves 
 To see you wither'd tlius and dead, 
 
 From your own parent branches riven. 
 
 And scalter'd by the winds of heaven. 
 
 Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, 
 Who feels no pang, and heaves no sigh 
 
 To see you shrivell'd thus, achieves 
 No enviable victory 
 
 O'er powers that ne'er should own control — 
 
 The kindliest feelings of the soul ! 
 
 Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves. 
 
 Though hope aspire to heights sublime, 
 
 Vour fall iier every dream deceives. 
 And as the warning voice of time 
 
 Proclaims in language plain and clear 
 
 The changes of the circling year. 
 
 Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, 
 .•\iid shall we see your like a<j:ain? 
 
 That thought — like (Jilead's balm, relieves 
 The anguish of the heart and bniin, 
 
 (living a charm and mystic spell 
 
 To life's last words — Farewell !— Farewell !
 
 502 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY LORD BYROX. 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not, 
 Of those beloved, those vauish'd hours ; 
 When all my soul was given to thee — 
 Hours that may never be forijot. 
 Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 Can I forget, canst thou forget, 
 When playing with thy golden hair, 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did move .' 
 Oh, by my soul ! I see thee yet, 
 With eyes so languid — breast so fair. 
 And lips, though silent, breathing love. 
 
 When thus reclining on my breast, 
 Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
 As half reproach'd, yet raised desire; 
 And still we near and nearer press'd — 
 And still our quivering lips would meet, 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would close, 
 And bid their lids each other seek ; 
 Veiling the azure orbs below — 
 While their long lashes' dark'ning gloss 
 Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
 Like raven's plumage smooth'd in snow.
 
 303 
 
 THE FISHER. 
 
 rnOM IHt GERMAN OF GOETIIF. 
 
 The water roU'd — the water swell'd, 
 
 A fisher sat beside ; 
 Calmly his patient watch he held 
 
 Beside the freshening tide: 
 And while his patient watch he keeps, 
 
 The parted waters rose, 
 And from the oozy ocean deeps 
 
 A water maiden rose. 
 
 She spake to him, she sang to him — 
 
 *' Why lurest thou so my brood, 
 With cunning art and cruel heart, 
 
 From out their native flood ? 
 Ah ! couldst thou know, how here below 
 
 (Jur peaceful lives glide o'er, 
 Thou'dst leave thine earth, and plunge beneath, 
 
 To seek our happier shore. 
 
 '* Hathes not the golden sun his face — 
 
 The moon too in the sea : 
 And rise they not from their resting placr 
 
 INIore beautiful to see? 
 And lures thee not the clear deep heaven 
 
 \\ ithin the waters blue — 
 And thy form so fair, so mirroi'd there 
 
 In that eternal dew !" 
 
 The water roU'd — the water swell'd, 
 
 It reach'd his naked feet ; 
 lie felt, as at his love's apjjroach, 
 
 His bounding bosom beat ; • 
 
 She spake to him, she sang to him, 
 
 His short suspense is o'er; 
 Half drew she him, half dropp'd he in, 
 
 And sank to rise no more.
 
 304 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I SAW her as she once did seem — 
 A form that haunts the poet's dream — 
 A ray from high, a moment felt, 
 With power to gladden and to melt, — 
 A white cloud wandering in the sky 
 So fiird with heavenly light, the eye 
 Forgets that from our own dark earth 
 That thing of glory had its birth. 
 
 Sweet sister ! even so didst thou 
 Appear, and so I see thee now — 
 Thy calm eyes, and thy soft light hair, 
 Thy cheek so pure, and pale, and fair, — 
 That when my soul thus dwells on thee, 
 I almost doubt if thou couldst be 
 (So heavenly bright, so meekly mild) 
 A fading flower, an earthly child. 
 
 Again I saw her — and though years 
 Had pass'd that fiU'd my eyes with tears, 
 I knew that form where womanhood 
 Her summer bloom had gently strew'd ; 
 And on her fair arm one did lean 
 With love confiding and serene, 
 On whose gray hairs she fix'd her eyes 
 In playful and yet pensive guise : 
 
 And as he folded to his breast 
 His darling child, and praised and bless'd, 
 For very joy the old man wept — 
 Oh I what an icy chillness crept 
 Throughout my veins, when that fair scene 
 I knew was but what might have been — 
 Tiie blasted hope, the wither'd bloom. 
 That sleeps within her early tomb.
 
 ;uj 
 
 THE BRIDAL MORNING. 
 
 Tears on thy bridal morning! Tears, my love ! 
 It ought not thus to be. Why, my full heart 
 Is like the gladsome, long imprison'd bird, 
 Cleaving its way through the blue litjuid arch 
 \\"nh liberty and song. Those dropping pearls 
 Waste but thy bosom's wealth. 'Twere well to keep 
 Such treasures for those long arrears which grief 
 Demands from the brief summer of our time. 
 I'll turn magician, dearest, and compute 
 Wiiat moves thy spirit thus. Remember'd joys, 
 Clustering so thickly round thy parents' hearth, 
 Put on bright robes at parting, and, perchance, 
 A mother's sympathy, or the fond clasp 
 Of thy young sister's snowy arms, do bind 
 Thine innocent soul in durance. Oh ! my love ! 
 Cast thy heart's ijohl into the furnace-flame, 
 And, if it come not thence retined and jnire, 
 I'll be a bankrupt to thy hope, and heaven 
 Shall shut its gate on me. Come, sweetest, come ! 
 The holy vow shall tremble on thy lip. 
 And at God's blessed altar shalt thou kneel 
 So meek and beautiful, that men will deem 
 Some angel there dotli pr.iy. Thou shalt then be 
 The turtle of my green and fragrant bower, 
 Trilling soft lays; and I will touch thy heart 
 W'hh such strong warmth of deathless tenderness, 
 That all thy pictures of remember'd joy 
 Shall be as faded ihnms. So be at rest. 
 My soul's behned ! and let ihy rose-bud lip 
 .Smile, as 'twas wont, in elocjuent delight.
 
 306 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CHARIB. 
 
 Fathkr, whither art thou gone? 
 To the mountain's topmost stone? 
 In the darkness of the mine 
 Does thy prison spirit pine? 
 Dost thou still thy quiver fling 
 By the forest's shadowy spring ? 
 Does the rushinsc buffalo 
 Hear the clanging of thy bow ? 
 Dost thou haunt the gory ground 
 Wliere the shaft thy bosom found — 
 Where thy sons beheld thee die 
 With a Charib warrior's eye — 
 Where thy sons had blood for blood, 
 Raven's food for raven's food, 
 Scalp for scalp, and bone for bone, 
 Till our high revenge was done ? 
 
 Spirit! whither art thou gone ? 
 To the regions of the noon ; 
 To the valleys of the rose ; 
 To the fountains of repose ; 
 Where the silence sweet is stirr'd. 
 But by murmurs of the bird, — 
 But by echoes of the deep, 
 Heaving in its golden sleep, — 
 But by twilight melodies, 
 Falling from the dewy skies ? 
 
 Spirit ! whither art thou gone ? 
 To the mystic northern zone; 
 Where the Night's lone majesty 
 Sits enthroned on earth and sky ; 
 Where, upon the' eternal snow 
 Twice ten thousand splendours glow,
 
 TUF. SONG OF THE CHARIB. 307 
 
 Kusliiiig from the height of heaven : 
 Now, like armies battle-riven, 
 When the piuple streams are fed, 
 With tlie freightatje of the dead ; 
 Wjien the fight has sliower'd the plain, 
 NN'itii a broad and gory rain; 
 When, upon the mountain's side, 
 Stands the remnant of their pride, 
 \N'ith the siiatter'd bow and plume, 
 Like the spectres round a tomb ? 
 
 Or the fiery element 
 Is in sudden beauty blent. 
 As at some encha'iter's call, 
 Till ascends a glorious hall. 
 Lit with riclier hues than stream 
 From the sunset's amber gleam ; 
 When upon the dazzled sight 
 Rush the dwellers of the ligiit. 
 Stately, silent, splendid, cold, 
 Seeming council high to hold 
 < )n some great celestial war : 
 \Vhile the central polar star. 
 High above the airy cam|). 
 Hangs its pale, eclipsing lamp, 
 Till the throniring ])omps are past. 
 Swifter than the tempest's blast ; 
 And o'er earth and sky afar 
 Burns the undiminish'd star. 
 
 Spirit! whither art thou gone? 
 Is the thunder-cloud tliy throne ? 
 List we not thy voice of fi'ar 
 When the whirlwind rushes near '. 
 Is it tiiou that bidd'st us shake, 
 When the tempest rides the lake;
 
 308 THE SONG OF THE CIIARIB. 
 
 When the lightning's blinding glare 
 Lays the ancient mountains bare ? 
 Are not thine the cries that roll 
 Terror on the Charib's soul? 
 Now we see thee in the cloud ; 
 Now thy voice is thunder-loud ; 
 Now thou'rt in the lightning's fire : 
 Com'st thou for us, king: and sire ? 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL and laughing thing, ML 
 
 Just in her first apparelling M 
 
 Of girlish loveliness : blue eyes, " 
 
 Such blue as in the violet dwells, 
 
 And rose-bud lips of sweets, such sweets 
 
 The bee hoards in his fragrant cells. 
 
 'Tis not a blush upon her cheek — 
 
 Oh blushes but of love can speak ; 
 
 That brow is ail too free from care 
 
 For Love to be a dweller there. 
 
 Alas, that Love should ever fling 
 
 One shadow from his radiant wing! 
 
 But that fair cheek knows not a cloud, 
 
 And health and hope are in its dyes. 
 
 She has been over hill and dale. 
 
 Chasing the summer butterflies. 
 
 Yet there is malice in her smile, 
 
 As if she felt her woman's power, 
 
 And liad a gift of prophecy, 
 
 To look upon that coming hour 
 
 When, fear'd by some, yet loved by all. 
 
 Young Beauty holds her festival.
 
 309 
 
 THE GREEN HOLLY BOUGH. 
 
 1 luvE this glad season, as yearly it comes, 
 \\ ith its cold to our meadows, and mirth to our homes; 
 I love in the landscape when whiten'd with snow, 
 To mark the bright leaves of the green holly bough. 
 
 I love in the merry fresh days of the spring, 
 To mark the trees budding, and hear the buds sing ; 
 And now, while our holiday feelings o'erHow, 
 How cheerfully bright is the green holly bough. 
 
 1 love in die warmth of the summer-sunn'd hour<, 
 To wander alone in the sweet leafy bowers; 
 IJut I love in this season to mingle the glow 
 Of social delight 'nealh the green holly bough. 
 
 I love in the autumn to mark o'er the trees. 
 The fruitage all ripening in sunshine and breeze ; 
 And I love in the winter, when stormy wiruls blow, 
 To mark all uninjured the green holly bougii. 
 
 I love U>e warm blaze of the festival halls, 
 When garlands of bright flowers hang on the walls; 
 But the fire, nor the feast, nor the garlands can show, 
 A brightness surpassing tlie green liolly bough. 
 
 I love the old custom which yearly suspends 
 The mystical misletoe over its friends ; 
 But frienrlship, or love, as sweet kisses may kncnr. 
 Beneath the safe shade of the green holly bough.
 
 310 THE GREEN HOLLV BOUGH. 
 
 I love the fresh jay, the pledge of regard ; 
 
 The conqueror's laurel — the lay of the bard ; 
 
 The fragrant myrtle which lovers bestow, 
 
 But most the bright leaves of the green holly bougl 
 
 Then gather it quickly, the berries and spray, 
 And hang it up high on this festival day ; 
 Let wine, mirth, and music, unitedly flow, 
 All soberly, under the green holly bough. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BV THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Alone beneath the moon I roved, 
 
 And thought how oft in hours gone by, 
 I heard my Mary say she loved 
 
 To look upon a moonlight sky ! 
 The day had been one lengthen'd shower. 
 
 Till moonlight came, with lustre meek, 
 To light up every weeping flower. 
 
 Like smiles upon a mourner's cheek. 
 
 I call'd to mind from Eastern books 
 
 A thought that could not leave me soon ; 
 " The moon on many a night-flower looks. 
 
 The night-flower sees no other moon." 
 And thus I thought our fortunes run, 
 
 For many a lover sighs to thee ; 
 While oh ! I feel there is but o«e, 
 
 One ]Marv in the world for me !
 
 31 1 
 
 YELLOW LI:AVES. 
 
 The leiues are falling from the trees, 
 
 The Howers are fading all ; 
 More chill and boisterous is the breeze, 
 
 More hoarse the waterfall : 
 Thy sky, o'erniantled now with clouds, 
 
 Looks gray, and waned, and pale ; 
 The mist-fog spreads its hoary shrouds 
 
 O'er mountain, grove, and vale. 
 
 How lapse our years away ! l»ow fade 
 
 The raptures of the mind ! 
 Onward we pass to storm and shade, 
 
 And leave blue skies behind : 
 Like yellow leaves, around us fall 
 
 The friends best loved and known ; 
 And when we most have need of all, 
 
 We oft are most alone. 
 
 Still more alone! blithe Spring comes roum 
 
 Rich Sununer-tide smiles by ; 
 And golden Autunui paints the ground, 
 
 Till Winter's storm-blasts Hy. 
 One after one, friends drop away. 
 
 As months on months roll on; 
 And hour by hour, and dav by day, 
 
 Tiu- old are more alone. 
 
 Still more alone ! alas ! 'tis vain 
 New hopes, new hearts to find ; 
 
 What magic can restore again 
 Tlie visions of youth's mind ?
 
 312 YELLOW LEAVES. 
 
 Age walks amid an alter'd world, 
 'Mid bustling crowds unknown : 
 
 New scenes bath Novelty unfurl'd, 
 And left the old alone ! 
 
 " Sere leaves that dangle from Life's tree,' 
 
 The old might well have said, 
 '' A relic of the past are we ; 
 
 A remnant of the dead : 
 Like emblems of forlorn decay 
 
 We linger till the last ; 
 But death's long night shall turn to day, 
 
 When Time itself is past !" 
 
 MORALITY IN MODERATION. 
 
 'TwixT Wit and Wisdom, Beauty sat; 
 
 Both strove to win her favour ; 
 Wit gaily talk'd of this and that, 
 
 But Wisdom's tone was graver. 
 The first, her ear with trifles took ; 
 
 The second, to advise her. 
 Said — " Take a page from Reason's book, 
 
 And grow a little wiser," 
 
 " Not now, grave sir:" — return'd the maid 
 
 " For, though I'm fond of reason, 
 'Tis much like venison, which, 'tis said. 
 
 Is only good — in season. 
 I must not take the leaf, kind sage, 
 
 You'll need its consolation ; 
 And I have here a single Page 
 
 That better suits the' occasion.
 
 Mli 
 
 THE WARRIOR. 
 
 BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 His foot's in the stirmp, 
 
 His hands on the mane — 
 He is up and away, 
 
 Shall we see him again ? 
 He thinks on his ladye-love, 
 
 Little he heeds 
 The levelling of lances 
 
 Or rushing of steeds : 
 He tiiinks on his true love> 
 
 And rides in an armour 
 Of proof woven sure 
 
 By the spells of his charmer. 
 
 How young and how comely — 
 
 Lo ! look on him now, 
 How steadfast his eye 
 
 And how trantjuil his brow : 
 The gift of his ladye-love 
 
 Cilitters full gay, 
 As down, like tin; eagle, 
 
 He pours on his prey. 
 Go, sing it in song ; 
 
 And go, tell it in story — 
 Hf went in his strength 
 
 And retuni'd in his glory.
 
 314 
 
 LINES, 
 
 BY A LADY, ON OBSERVING SOME WHITE HAIRS ON 
 IIER lover's head. 
 
 Thou, to whose power reluctantly we bend, 
 Foe to life's fairy dreams, relentless Time, 
 
 Alike the dread of lover and of friend, 
 
 Why stamp thy seal on manhood's rosy prime ? 
 
 Already twining 'midst my Thyrsis' hair 
 
 Tlie snowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care. 
 
 Through all her forms, though Nature own thy sway. 
 That boasted sway thou'lt here exert in vain : 
 
 To the last beam of life's declining day, 
 
 Thyrsis shall view, unmoved, thy potent reign, — 
 
 Secure to please, while goodness knows to charm, 
 
 Fancy and taste delight, or sense and truth inform. 
 
 Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow. 
 Swept by thy chilling wing, the rose shall fiy ; 
 
 When thy rude scythe indents his polish'd brow. 
 And quench'd is all the lustre of his eye ; 
 
 When ruthless age disperses everj' grace. 
 
 Each smile that beams from that ingenuous face ; — 
 
 Then, through her stores shall active Memory rove. 
 Teaching each various charm to bloom anew. 
 
 And still the raptured eye of faithful love 
 Shall bend on Thyrsis its delighted view ; 
 
 Still shall he triumph with resistless power, 
 
 Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remotest hour.
 
 31.j 
 
 THE COUNTRY GIRL. 
 
 UN A PICTIRE BV UOLilJ S. 
 BY W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
 Those locks from Summer's golden skies, 
 
 That o'er thy brow are shed ; 
 That cheek — a kindling of the morn, 
 That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw ; and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, 
 Of bliss that grows without a care; 
 i){ happiness that never flies — 
 How can it where love never dies ? 
 (Jf promise whispering, where no blight 
 Can reacli tiie innocent delight; 
 Where I'ily to the mind convey 'd 
 In pleasure is the darkest shade, 
 That time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
 From his smoothly-gliding wings. 
 
 What mortal form, what earthly face, 
 Inspired the pencil, lines to trace. 
 And mingle colours that could breed 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed .' 
 For, had thy charge been idle flowers. 
 Fair damsel, o'er my captive mind. 
 To truth and sober re ison blind, 
 'Mid the soft air, those lon<^-l(»st bowers, 
 That sweet illusion might have hung for hours I 
 — Thanks to this telltale sheaf of corn. 
 That touchingly besj)eaks thee born,
 
 316 THE COUNTRY GIRL. 
 
 Life's daily task with them to share, 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 They rise, or rest the weary head, 
 Do weigh the blessing they entreat 
 From heaven, and feel what they repeat, 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 That asks for daily bread. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY LORD BYROX. 
 
 I HEARD thy fate without a tear. 
 
 Thy loss with scarce a sigh ; 
 And yet thou wert surpassing dear — 
 
 Too loved of all to die. 
 I know not what hath sear'd mine eye ; 
 
 The tears refuse to start ; 
 But every drop its lids deny 
 
 Falls darkly on my heart. 
 
 Yes — deep and heavy, one by one, 
 
 They sink and turn to care ; 
 As cavern'd waters wear the stone. 
 
 Yet dropping harden there ; — 
 They cannot petrify more fast 
 
 Than feelings sunk remain, 
 Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past, 
 
 But never melt again.
 
 317 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY GERALD GRIFFEN. 
 
 1 LOVE my love in the morning, 
 
 For she, like morn, is fair — 
 Her blushing ciieek, its crimson streak, 
 
 Its clouds, her golden hair ; 
 ller glance, its beam, so soft and kind ; 
 
 Her tears, its dewy showers! 
 And her voice the tender whispering wind 
 
 That stirs the early bowers. 
 
 I love my love in the morning, 
 
 I love my love at noon ; 
 Tor she is bright, as the lord of light. 
 
 Yet mild a.s autumn's moon : 
 Her beauty is my bosom's sun, • 
 
 Her faith my fostering shade ; | 
 And I will love my darling one, 
 
 Till even that sun shall fade. 
 
 1 love my love in the morning, 
 
 I love my love at even ; 
 Her smile's soft play is like the ray 
 
 That lights the western heaven ; 
 I loved her when the sun was high, 
 
 I loved her when he rose ; 
 Hut, best of all when evening's siuh 
 
 Was murmuring at its close.
 
 318 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 I LOOKiT east — I lookit west, 
 I saw the darksome coming even ; 
 Tlie wild bird sought its cozy nest, 
 The kid was to the hamlet driven ; 
 But house nor hame anealh the heaven, 
 Except the skeugh of greenwood tree, 
 To seek a shelter it was given, 
 To ray three little bairns and rae. 
 
 I had a prayer I couldna pray, 
 I had a vow I couldna breathe, 
 For aye they led my words astray, 
 And aye they were connected baith 
 Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death. 
 I lookit round wi' waterj^ ee — 
 Hope wasna there — but I was laith 
 To see my little babies dee. 
 
 Just as the breeze the aspin stirr'd. 
 And bore aslant the falling dew, 
 I thought I heard a bonny bird 
 Singing amid the air sea blue ; 
 It was a lay that did renew 
 The hope deep sunk in misery ; 
 It was of one my woes that knew, 
 And ae kind heart that cared for me. 
 
 O, sweet as breaks the rising day, 
 Or sunbeam through the wavy rain, 
 Fell on my soul the charming lay ! 
 Was it an angel pour'd the strain ? 
 Whoe'er has kenn'd a mother's pain. 
 Bent o'er the child upon her knee, 
 O they will bless, and bless again. 
 The generous heart that cares for me !
 
 soxG. 319 
 
 A cot was rear'd by Mercy's hand 
 
 Amid the dreary wilderness, 
 
 It rose as if by magic wand, 
 
 A shelter to forlorn distress; 
 
 And weel I ken that Heaven will bless 
 
 The heart that issued the decree, 
 
 The widow and the fatherless 
 
 Can never pray and slighted be. 
 
 1 DO NOT LOVE THEE. 
 
 I DO not love thee ! — no ! I do not love thee ! 
 And yet when thou art absent I am sad ; 
 
 And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, 
 Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. 
 
 I do not love thee! — yet, I know not why, 
 NN'hate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me — 
 
 And often in my solitude I sigh — 
 That those I do love are not more like thee ! 
 
 I do not love thee! — yet, when thou art gone, 
 I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) 
 
 Which breaks the lingering eclio ot the tone 
 Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. 
 
 I do not love thee I — yet thy speaking eyes. 
 With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue — 
 
 Between me and the midnight heaven arise, 
 Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. 
 
 I know I do not love thee ! yet, alas ! 
 Others will scarcely trust my candid heart! 
 
 And oft I catch them smiling as tlicy ])ass, 
 Because they see me gazing where thou art-
 
 320 
 
 LATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 BY \V. KENNEDY. 
 
 Would that the hour you call'd me thine, 
 
 Deserted girl, had been our last ! 
 Before the star had ceased to shine 
 
 Whose influence then was o'er us cast. 
 Would that we had not Imger'd here, 
 
 But, in the stillness of that dream. 
 Floated to some less troubled sphere, 
 
 Like rose-leaves down a summer stream. 
 
 Tliy heart to loneliness and grief 
 
 Then had not been an early prey ;. 
 Nor had I felt my fond belief 
 
 In life's illusion fade away. 
 Oh ! more — I had not lived to mourn 
 
 The choice I in my madness made 
 Of toys by folly won and worn. 
 
 Which left for banish'd peace a shade. 
 
 Tlie world — my uncomplaining love — 
 
 The world I wooed — avenged thee well- 
 The goldeii shower I prized above 
 
 Thy young aifection on. me fell. 
 The hand of power, the voice of fame, 
 
 In later days have both been mine ; 
 But never have I felt the same 
 
 In heart as when vou call'd me thine.
 
 321 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 BY HEXRY NEELE. 
 
 Love is a plant of holier birth, 
 Than any that takes its root on earth ; 
 A tlower from heaven, which 'tis a crime 
 To number with the things of time ; 
 Hope in the bud is often blasted, 
 And beauty on the desert wasted ; 
 And joy, a ])rimrose early gay, 
 Care's lightest foot-fall treads away. 
 
 But love shall live and live for ever. 
 
 And chance and change shall reach it never ; 
 
 Can hearts in which true love is plighted, 
 
 By want or woe be disunited ? 
 
 Ah ! no, like buds on ont; slein born, 
 
 They share between them even the thorn 
 
 Which round them dwells, but parts them no 
 
 A lorn yet undivided lot. 
 
 Can death dissever hjve, or part 
 The loved one from the lover's heart ? 
 \o, no ; he docs but guard the prize 
 Sacred from moral injuries, 
 Makmg it ])urer, holier seem, 
 As the ice closing o'er the stream, 
 Keeps, while storms ravage earth and air, 
 All baser things from mingling there. 
 
 r 2
 
 3-22 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh, ask me not how long thy gentle love 
 
 Hath dwelt on me ; 
 I only know 'tis long enough to prove 
 
 Thy constancy. 
 
 I cannot pause to number months, or days, 
 
 I know alone, 
 If to be faithful be Love's highest praise, 
 
 Thou wear'st the crown. 
 
 Oh, thou hast loved me long enough to show 
 
 Thou canst not range; 
 And long enough to bid experience know 
 
 How othera change. 
 
 Oil, long enough for the upbraiding thought, 
 
 That ne'er till now, 
 I prized thy love's rich treasure as I ought, 
 
 My all below. 
 
 Yes, I have seen full many a dream depart 
 
 With faithless speed ; 
 And some, who should have gently used my heart, 
 
 Have made it bleed . 
 
 And I have rued Affection's broken vow, 
 
 And felt the chill 
 Of Friendship's alter'd eye — but, dearest, thou 
 
 Art faithful still.
 
 323 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 BY MISS LAN DON". 
 
 Is she not beautiful, although so pale? 
 
 The first May flowers are not more colourless 
 
 Than her white cheek ; yet I recall the time 
 
 When slie was call'd the rose-bud of our village. 
 
 There was a blush, half modesty, lialf health, 
 
 Upon her cheek fresh as the summer morn 
 
 With which she rose. A cloud of che>tnut curls 
 
 Like twilight darken'd o'er her blue-vein'd brow ; 
 
 And through their hazel curtains eyes whose light 
 
 Was like the violets when April skies 
 
 Have given their own pure colour to the leaves, 
 
 Shone sweet and silent as the twilight star. 
 
 And she was liappy ; innocence and hope 
 
 Make the young lieart a paradise for love. 
 
 And she loved and was loved. The youth was one 
 
 That dwelt upon the waters. He had been 
 
 Where sweeps the blue Atlantic a wide world — 
 
 Had seen the sun light up the flowers like gems 
 
 In the bright Indian isles — had breathed the air 
 
 When sweet with cinnamon and gum and spice, 
 
 But he said that no air brought healtli or balm 
 
 Like that on his own hills, when it had swept 
 
 O'er orchards in their bU)on), or hedges, where 
 
 Blossom'd the hawthorn and the honeysuckle; — 
 
 That, but one voyage niort; and he would come 
 
 To his dear Ellen and her cottage home — 
 
 Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kis-,'d 
 
 Her tears away, talk'd of the pl»?asanl yeirs 
 
 \\ hich they should pass together — of the j)ride
 
 324 LLLEX. 
 
 He would take in his constancy ; Oh hope 
 Is verj' eloquent ! and as the hours 
 Pass'd by their fireside in calm cheerfulness, 
 Ellen forgot to weep. 
 
 At length the time 
 Of parting came ; 'twas the first month of spring. 
 Like a green fan spread the horse-chestnut leaves. 
 A shower of yellow bloom was on the elm, 
 The daisies shone like silver, and the boughs 
 ^Vere cover'd with their blossoms, and the sky 
 A\'as like an augury of hope, so clear 
 So beautifully blue. Love ! oh young Love ! 
 AVhy hast thou not security ? Thou art 
 Like a bright river on whose course the weeds 
 Are thick and heavy ; briars are on its banks, 
 And jagged stones and rocks are mid its waves. 
 Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush 
 Over its many obstacles, and pant 
 l-'or some green valley as its quiet home. 
 Euher it rushes with a desperate leap 
 Over its barriers, foaming passionate, 
 But prison'd still ; or winding languidly 
 Becomes dark, like oblivion, or else wastes 
 Itself away. — This is Love's histor}' ! 
 
 They parted one spring evening ; the green sea 
 Had scarce a curl upon its wave ; the ship 
 llode like a Queen of Ocean. — Ellen wept, 
 But not disconsolate, for she had hope ; 
 She knew not then the bitterness of tears. 
 But night closed in, and with the night there came 
 Tempest upon the wind ; the ocean light 
 Glared like a funeral pile ; all else was black 
 And terrible as death. We heard a sound 
 Come from the ocean — one lone signal gun, 
 Asking for help in vain — follow'd by shrieks.
 
 ELLEN. 325 
 
 Home by the ravening gale ; then deepest silence : 
 
 Some gallant souls had perish'd. With the first 
 
 Dim light of morn we sought the beach ; and there 
 
 Lay fragments of a shij), and hinnan shapes 
 
 Ghastly and gash'd. But the worst sight of all 
 
 A sight of living miser}- met our gaze ; 
 
 Seated upon a rock, drench'd by the rain, 
 
 Her hair torn by the wind, there Ellen sat. 
 
 Pale, motionless. How could love guide her there? 
 
 A corpse lay by her, in her arms its head 
 
 Found a fond pillow ; and o'er it she w atch'd 
 
 As tlie young mother watches her first child. 
 
 It was her lover. 
 
 SOLACE IN SORROW. 
 
 Oh ! it is sweet, amid the waste of years. 
 To meet with one — be he till then unknow n — 
 'I'hat Cometh from the land where first our feet have 
 gone. 
 
 When friends are lost, hopes wither, and our tears 
 Freeze in their fountains — but a voice breaks 
 through. 
 Hearts warm, hopes bloom, and eyes weep love anew ! 
 
 It is a soft sprint! rain that doth awaken 
 The flowers of Paradise in grief to know 
 Tiie friemls of youth more bk'ss'd,ordream that it is so. 
 
 What though sure knowledge strive with hope and 
 
 break 
 The illusive mirror? it betrayeth not — 
 Is it not sweet though sad to prove them uiiforj^ol?
 
 326 
 
 ROSALIND WITH A CHAIN. 
 
 " Wear this for me."— As You Like It, Act i. Sc. 2. 
 
 Oh ! ^vea^ this simple chain for me. 
 
 That, when long years have pass'd away, 
 Each sever'd link may offer tliee 
 
 An emblem of my own decay. 
 Yet, no ! an hour may see that chain 
 
 United by the hand of art ; 
 But what can ever join again, 
 
 The rent links of a broken heart ! 
 
 Recall the hours when Love's fond kiss 
 Gave transport to our cloudless youth ; 
 
 Which linger'd fondly — like my bliss — 
 Then fled for ever — like thy truth. 
 
 The cold world's frown — the proud man's scorn- 
 To be by all forgot — reviled — 
 
 Oh ! these and more I could have borne, 
 
 Ilad'st thou but loved — hadst thou but smiled, 
 
 My love has been " too deep for tears," 
 
 And sighs have told it — 'twas confess'd 
 By ruin'd health and blighted years, 
 
 By fallen hopes and vanish'd rest — 
 Yet wear this simple chain for me, 
 
 And keep it as a parting token 
 Of one, whose youthful love to thee, 
 
 Unlike his heart, remain'd unbroken.
 
 REMEMBER ME. 
 
 Remember me, when summer friends surround thee> 
 
 And Ijonied flatteries gain thy willing ear; 
 \N hen fame and fortune's glittering wreaths have 
 crown'd thee, 
 
 And all is thine, tliy fickle heart holds dear, — 
 Tlien think of her whose changeless fortunes bless'd 
 thee, 
 
 When hope was dark, and faithful friends were few, 
 Who, when hard griping poverty depress'd thee. 
 
 And all beside seem'd cold, was kind and true. 
 
 Remember me, in courtly hall and bower, 
 
 And wlien thoukneel'statsome fond beauty's shrine, 
 Ask of the past, if through life's varying hour, 
 
 Its joys and griefs, her love can equal mine ! 
 And when thy youthful hopes are most excited. 
 
 Should she prove false, and break her faith like thee, 
 Think of the hopes thy wayward love hatii blighted, 
 
 And from that lesson learn to feel for nie ! 
 
 Kemember me, aufl oh ! when fate halh 'reft thee, 
 
 Of fame a.nd fortune, friends and love, and bliss, 
 (.'ome back to one thou know'st would ne'er have left 
 thee, 
 
 And she'll but chide thy falsehood with a kiss ! 
 But no, no, no, I feel that life is waning, — 
 
 That what I was I never more can be, — 
 That I am fast on that sweet haven gaining, 
 
 Where there is rest for e'en a wretch like lue !
 
 328 REMEMBER ME. 
 
 Remember me ! thou canst not sure refuse me, 
 
 The only boon from thee I've sought, or seek ; 
 Soon will the world, with bitter taunts, accuse me, 
 
 Yet wake no blushes on my bloodless cheek ! 
 But I would have thee tender to my fame. 
 
 When I have 'scaped life's dark tumultuous sea; 
 And howsoe'er unkinder spirits blame. 
 
 As what thou know'st I was remember me ! 
 
 NIL DESPERANDUM. 
 
 Y ES, I am rich in all excuse to mourn 
 
 O'er broken hopes of life's deluded prime, 
 And many a heart-wish from my bosom torn. 
 
 And nothing left me but the ' scorns of time.' 
 But my firm soul despondence spurns as crime, 
 
 And champions Fate to sterner strife, or e'er 
 It gives the garland up — by all sublime 
 
 And restless energies that stir to dare. 
 Thou shalt not conquer me, dark-blooded fiend 
 Despair ! 
 
 Though the last canvass of my hope be furl'd, 
 
 I was not launch'd to founder in the gale ; 
 But ride the roaring waters of the world, 
 
 Till bluer skies, and happier hours prevail, 
 Then spread the bosom of a bolder sail : 
 
 Full many a galley at worse random cast. 
 That felt the billow and the blast assail, 
 
 The tempest hush'd and all its perils past 
 lias moor'd its weary keel on shores of peace at last.
 
 329 
 
 SIX SONGS. 
 
 BY MISS LAN DON. 
 LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! yet one smile, thougl\ dark may lour 
 
 Around thee clouds of woe and ill, 
 
 Let me yet feel that I have power. 
 
 Mid Fate's bleak storms, to sooth thee still. 
 
 Though sadness be upon thy brow, 
 Yet let it turn, dear love, to me, 
 I cannot bear that thou should'st know 
 Sorrow I do not share with thee. 
 
 True love's wreath is of mountain flowers. 
 They stand the storm and brave the blast, 
 And blossom on, so love like ours 
 Is sweetest when all ebe is past. 
 
 Too well I know what storms have frown'd, 
 And now frown on life's troubled tide ; 
 Still darker let them gaiher round, 
 They have no power on hearts so tried . 
 
 Then say not that you may not bear. 
 To shadow spirit light as mine; 
 I shall not shrink, or fear to share 
 The darkest fate if it be thine. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 Oh ! say not love was never made 
 For heart so light as mine ; 
 
 Must love then seek the cypress shade, 
 Hear but a gloomy shrine.
 
 330 
 
 Oh ! say not, that for me more meet 
 
 The revelry of youth ; 
 Or that my wild heart cannot beat 
 
 With deep devoted truth. 
 
 Though mirth may many changes ring, 
 
 Tis but an outward show, 
 Even upon the fond dove's wing 
 
 Will varj-ing colours glow. 
 
 Light smiles upon my lip may gleam 
 
 And sparkle o'er my brow, 
 'Tis but the glitter of the stream 
 
 That hides the gold below. 
 
 Tis love that gilds the mirthful hour, 
 
 That lights the smile for me, 
 Those smiles would instant lose their power. 
 
 Did they^ not glance on thee ! 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 Oh ! come to my slumber 
 Sweet dreams of my love, 
 I have hung the charm'd wreath 
 My soft pillow above. 
 
 The roses are link'd 
 In a chain pure and white ; 
 And the rose leaves are wet 
 With the dew-drops of night. 
 
 The moon was on high 
 As I gather'd each flower ; 
 The dew that then falls 
 Has a magical power.
 
 SONGS. 331 
 
 The Spirit of slumber 
 Those roses has bless'd ; 
 And sweet are the visions 
 They'll bring to my rest. 
 
 Be their spell on my soul, 
 So they let me but see 
 His dark eyes flash in love, 
 And his smile glance on me. 
 
 Let sleep bring the image 
 Of one far away ; 
 'Tis worth all the tears 
 I shed for him by day. 
 
 I have hung the charm 'd wreath 
 My soft pillow above ; 
 Then come to my slumber, 
 Sweet dreams of my love ! 
 
 INCONSTANCY. 
 
 How vain to cast my love away 
 
 On bosom false as thine ; 
 The floweret's bloom, that springs in May, 
 
 Would be a safer shrine 
 
 To build my fondest hopes upon, 
 
 Tliough fragile it may be. 
 That flower's smile is not sooner gone 
 
 Than love that tnists to thee. 
 
 Love asks a calm, a gentle home. 
 
 Or else its life is o'er ; 
 If once you let its pinions roam, 
 
 Oh ! then 'tis love no more.
 
 332 SONGS. 
 
 The aspen's changeful shade can be 
 No shelter for the dove ; 
 
 And hearts as varying as that tree, 
 Are sure no place for love. 
 
 Hope linger'd long and anxiously, 
 O'er failing faith, but now 
 
 I give thee back each heartless sigh, 
 Give back each broken vow. 
 
 I'll trust the stay of tulip dyes, 
 The calm of yon wild sea. 
 
 The sunsliine of the April skies. 
 But never more to thee I 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Oh ! would that love had power to raise 
 A little isle for us alone, 
 With fairy flowers, and sunny rays. 
 The blue sea wave its guardian zone. 
 
 No other step should ever press 
 This hidden Eden of the heart. 
 And we would share its loveliness, 
 From every other thing apart. 
 
 The rose and violet should weep, 
 Whene'er our leafy couch was laid. 
 The lark should wake our morning sleep. 
 The bulbul sing our serenade. 
 
 And we would watch the starry^ hours. 
 And call the moon to hear our vows. 
 And we would cull the sweetest flowers. 
 And twine fresh chaplets for our brows.
 
 xr.i 
 
 I thought thus of the flowers, the moon, 
 Tliis fairy isle for you and nie ; 
 And tlien I thought how very soon 
 How very tired we should be. 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 He must be rich whom I could love, 
 
 His fortune clear must be, 
 Whetiier in land or in the funds, 
 
 'Tis all the same to me. 
 
 He must be old whom I could love, 
 Then he'll not plague me long ; 
 
 In sooth 'twill be a pleasant sight, 
 To see him borne along 
 
 To where the croaking ravens lurk, 
 And where the earth-worms dwell : 
 
 A widow's hood will suit my face. 
 And black becomes me well. 
 
 And he must make a settlement, 
 
 I'll have no man without; 
 And when he writes his testament, 
 
 He must not leave me out. 
 
 Oh ! such a man as this would suit 
 Kach wish I here express ; 
 
 If he should say, — Will you have me? 
 I'll very soon say — Yes!
 
 334 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 
 And curly pate, and merry eye, 
 
 And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 
 And soft and fair, thou urchin sly ? 
 
 What boots it who, with sweet caresses, 
 First caird thee his, or squire or hind ? 
 
 For thou in every wight that passes 
 Dost now a friendly playmate find ! 
 
 Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, 
 
 As fringed eyelids rise and fall. 
 Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, 
 
 'Tis infantine coquetry all ! 
 
 But far afield thou hast not flown. 
 
 With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken, 
 I feel thee pulling at my gown, 
 
 Of right good-will thy simple token ! 
 
 And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 
 
 A mimic warfare with me waging, 
 To make, as wily lovers do. 
 
 Thy after kindness more engaging ! 
 
 Tlie wilding rose, sweet as thyself. 
 
 And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure ; 
 
 Fd gladly part with worldly pelf. 
 
 To taste again thy youthful pleasure !
 
 10 A CHILP. 333 
 
 lUit yet, for all thy merry look, 
 Thy frisks and wilts, the time is coming, 
 
 NN'hen thou shalt sit in cheerless nook. 
 The weary spell or hornbook thumbing ! 
 
 Well ; let it be ! through weal and woe. 
 Thou know'st not now thy future range ; 
 
 Life is a motley shifting show, 
 
 And thou a thing of hope and change ! 
 
 THE DYING FAILE. 
 
 BY EUMIND KEADE. 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell to thee. 
 
 My own, my native land ! 
 Now would to God that I were free 
 
 Upon thy rugged strand! 
 If but for one last look to bless 
 
 Thy hills and deep blue sky, 
 And all my love for thee confess : 
 
 Then lay me down and die. 
 
 But now I am alone, and none 
 
 Will hear when I am dead : 
 I'erchance ere sets that glorious Sun, 
 
 My spirit shall be fled ! 
 I watch him yet — and faintly smile 
 
 In death, to think that he 
 \N ill rise so bright upon that isle, 
 
 Where 1 may never be! 
 
 My Country ! while I bless thee, how 
 
 iVIy feelings in me swell : 
 Alas, I never knew till now 
 
 I loved thee half so well !
 
 336 THE DYING EXILE. 
 
 But when alone among strange men, 
 When friends forget, and false ones flee ; 
 
 Something the heart must love, and then 
 It can but turn to thee ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! the sun's last gleams 
 
 Are sinking in the sea : 
 Along the shore the sea-bird screams, 
 
 Unheard, unreck'd by me ; 
 I feel my elabing breath decay, 
 
 And fail my darkening sight : 
 Yet ere I pass away, away, 
 
 My native land — good night ! 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 The sun went down in beauty — not a cloud 
 Darken'd its radiance — yet there might be seen 
 A few fantastic vapours scatter'd o'er 
 The face of the blue heavens; — some fair and slight 
 As the pure lawn that shields the maiden's breast; 
 Some shone like silver — some did stream afar, ^ 
 
 Faint and dispersed, like the pale horse's mane .^ 
 
 Which Death shall stride hereafter, — some were glit- 
 tering ^. 
 Like dolphin's scales, touch 'd out with wavering hues 
 Of beautiful light — outvying some the rose, ^ 
 And some the violet, yellow, white, and blue, M 
 Scarlet, and purpling red. — One small lone ship r 
 Was seen, ^^-ith outstretch'd sails, keeping its way 
 In quiet o'er the deep; — all nature seem'd 
 Fond of tranquillity ; — the glassy sea 
 Scarce rippled — the halcyon slept upon the wave ; 
 The winds were all at rest, — and in the east
 
 THE STORM. ?.3T 
 
 The crescent moon, then seen imperfectly, 
 Came onwards, with the ves|:>er star, to see 
 A summer day's decline. 
 
 » » » * 
 
 The sun went down in beauty ; — but the eyes 
 
 ( )f ancient seamen trembled when they saw 
 
 A small black and ominous spot far in the distance : — 
 
 It spread, and spread — larger and dark — and came 
 
 O'ershadowing the skies; — the ocean rose; 
 
 Tlie gathering waves grew large, and broke in hoarse 
 
 And hollow sounds ; — the miijhty winds awoke, 
 
 And scream'd and whistled through the cordage ; — 
 
 birds, 
 That seem'd to have no home, flock'd there in terror. 
 And sat with quivering plumage on the mast. 
 Flashes were seen, and distant sounds were heard — 
 Presages of a storm. 
 
 • » « « 
 
 The sun went down in beauty, — but the skies 
 
 Were wildly changed. — It was a dreadful niuht — 
 
 No moon was seen, in all the heavens, to aid 
 
 Or cheer the lone and sea-beat mariner — 
 
 Planet nor guiditr/ star broke through the gloom ; — 
 
 But the blue lightnings glared along the waters, 
 
 As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light 
 
 Some wretches to their graves; — the tempest winds 
 
 Raving came next, and in deep hollow sounds, 
 
 Like those the spirits of the dead do use 
 
 When they would speak their evil prophecies, 
 
 Mutter'd of death to come; — then came the tliundcr 
 
 Deepening and crashing a.s 'twould rend tiu- world ; 
 
 Or, as tlx' Deity pass'd aloft in anger 
 
 And spoke to man — Desp;iir! — The ship was tossM, 
 
 Aufl tKnv stood poised upon the curling billows, 
 
 And now midst deep and watery chasms, thatyawn'd 
 
 As 'twere in hunger, sank ; — behind there came 
 
 LYRE. ij
 
 338 THE STORM. 
 
 Mountains of moving water, — with a rush 
 And sound of gathering power, that did appal 
 The heart to look on; — terrible cries were heard; 
 Sounds of despair some, — some like a mother's an- 
 guish — 
 Some of intemperate, dark, and dissolute joy — 
 Music and horrid mirth — but unallied 
 To joy ; — madness might be heard amidst 
 The pauses of the storm — and when the glare 
 Was strong, rude savage men were seen to dance 
 In frantic exultation on the deck. 
 Though all was hopeless. — Hark! the ship has struck. 
 And the fork'd lightning seeks the arsenal — 
 'Tis tired— and mirth and madness are no more ! 
 'Midst column'd smoke, deep red, the fragments fly 
 In tierce confusion — splinters and scorch'd limbs, 
 And burning masts, and showers of gold, — torn from 
 The heart that hugg'd it e'en till death. — Thus doth 
 Sicilian Etna in her angry moods, 
 Or Hecla 'mid her wilderness of snows. 
 Shoot up their burning entrails, with a sound 
 Louder than that the Titans utter'd from 
 Their subterranean caves, when Jove enchain'd 
 Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies, 
 Shock'd at excess of light, return'd the sound 
 In frightful echoes, — as if an alarm 
 Had spread through all the elements — then came 
 A horrid silence — deep — unnatural — like 
 The quiet of the grave !
 
 339 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 IMITATION OF AN OLD TOET. 
 
 My father is dead, and my mother is dead — 
 They sleep beneath the churchyard tree : 
 
 And my brothers so brave, are all in the grave, 
 The greedy grave that yawns for me. 
 
 1 am an orphan, without a friend — 
 
 Courage, my heart, for life will end. 
 
 I was the delight of a gallant knight. 
 And he vow'd he only lived for me; 
 
 But the turtle, I trow, is doom'd to woe, 
 While her faithless mate away doth flee. 
 
 Courage, my heart, and bear the wrong — 
 
 Life is short, though sorrow is strong. 
 
 I had a sweet child, on me he smiled, 
 
 And bade me live his fame to see ; 
 But the death-storm blew, and the cold night dew 
 
 Blasted the rose so dear to me. 
 1 wraf>p'd hitn in his winding sheet. 
 And strew'd him with flowers as frail and sweet. 
 
 My kindred are dead, my love is fled ; 
 
 Courage, my heart, thou canst love no more ; 
 Pale is my cheek, my body is weak ; — 
 
 Courage, my heart, 'tw ill soon be o'er. 
 Dim are my eyes, with tears of sorrow; 
 They ache for a night, w illiout a morrow.
 
 340 
 
 THE BECHUANA BOY. 
 
 BY W. PRINGLE. 
 
 The chief incidents of this little tale were related to the author 
 by an African boy, whom he first met with near the borders of the 
 Great Karroo or Arid Desert. The expression of the orphan stranger, 
 when asked about his kindred, was literally (as translated by him 
 into broken Dutch)—" Ik ben alleenig in de waereldl" ». e. " I am 
 all alone in the world." A few slight circumstances, characteristic 
 of the country, are almost all that has been added to poor Marossi's 
 afFectinjr narrative. 
 
 The system of outrage and oppression of which this story exhibits 
 a specimen, has been ably developed by the Rev. Dr. Philip, in 
 his " Researches in South Africa." 
 
 The following terms perhaps require explanation for general 
 readers : 
 Bergenaars—'SlountahKers, a marauding horde of Griqna or Mulatto 
 
 lineage, inhabiting the skirts of the Stormberg mountains, beyond 
 
 the north eastern frontier of the Cape Colony. 
 Bmhman—\ wild Hottentot. 
 GaT-f^/j— Native name of the great Orange River. 
 Springbok— XntWo^e Pygarga or Euchore. 
 Wild-dog— JVilde-hond of the Colonists— Hj-afna Venatica. 
 Sea-co:i-, or Zeekoe— The Colonial term for the Hippopotamus. 
 Utika, i. e. Beautiful— The Supreme Spirit. 
 
 I SAT at noontide in my tent, 
 
 And look'd across the Desert dun, 
 That 'neath the cloudless firmament 
 
 Lay gleaming in the sun. 
 When from the bosom of the waste 
 A swarthy stripling came in haste, 
 With foot unshod and naked limb, 
 And a tame springbok following him. 
 
 He came with open aspect bland, 
 And modestly before me stood, 
 
 Caressing with a kindly hand 
 That fawn of gentle brood ;
 
 Tin: nrcnrvNA hoy. 341 
 
 Then, meekly gazing in my face, 
 Said in the language of his race, 
 \\ hh smiling look, yet pensive tone, 
 " Stranger, I'm in the world alone!" 
 
 " I'oor boy," I said, " thy kindred's home, 
 Beyond fur Storm berg's ridges blue. 
 
 Why hast thou left so young, to roam 
 This desolate Karroo .'" 
 
 The smile forsook him while I spoke; 
 
 And when again he silence broke. 
 
 It was with many a stifled sigh 
 
 He told this strange sad history. 
 
 '* I have no kindred !" said the boy: 
 " The Bergenaars, by nigiit they came, 
 
 And raised their murder-shout of joy. 
 While o'er our huts the Hame 
 
 Rush'd like a torrent; and their yell 
 
 Peal'd louder as our warriors fell 
 
 in helpless heaps beneath their shot. 
 
 One living man they left us not! 
 
 " The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain 
 To feast the foul-beak'd birds of prey ; 
 
 And with our herds across the plain 
 They hurried us away — 
 
 The widow'd mothers and their bro«Ml : 
 
 Oft, in despair, for drink and fooil 
 
 We vainly cried, they heeded not, 
 
 But with sharp htsh the captives smote. 
 
 "Three days we track'tl that dreary wild, 
 Where thirst and anmiish press'd us sore; 
 
 And many a mother and her child 
 Lay down to rise no more :
 
 342 THE BECHUAXA BOV. 
 
 Behind us, on the desert brown, 
 We saw the vultures swooping down ; 
 And heard, as the grim light was falling, 
 The gorged wolf to his comrade calling. 
 
 " At length was heard a river sounding 
 
 Midst that drj- and dismal land, 
 And, like a troop of wild deer bounding, 
 
 \Ve hurried to its strand ; 
 Among the raadden'd cattle rushing, 
 The crowd behind still fonvard pushing, 
 Till in the flood our limbs were drench'd, 
 And the tierce rage of thirst was quench'd. 
 
 " Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Gareep 
 
 In turbid streams was sweeping fast, 
 Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep 
 Loud snorting as we pass'd ; 
 ' But that relentless robber clan 
 
 Right through those waters wild and wan 
 Drove on like sheep our captive host, 
 Nor staid to rescue wretches lost. 
 
 " All shivering from the foaming flood. 
 
 We stood upon the stranger's ground, 
 When, with proud looks and gestures rude, 
 
 The white men gather'd round : 
 And there, like cattle from the fold. 
 By Christians we were bought and sold, — 
 Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn, — 
 And roughly from each other torn. 
 
 " My mother's scream so long and shrill. 
 
 My little sister's wailing cry, 
 (In dreams I often hear them still !) 
 
 Rose wildly to the sky.
 
 THF. BECIIIANA IJOY. 343 
 
 A tiger's heart came to me then, 
 And madly 'mong those rutliless men 
 I sprang! — Alas ! dash'd on tlie sand, 
 Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand. 
 
 " Away — away on V)ounding steeds 
 
 Tlie white man-sttalers fleetly go. 
 Through long low valleys fringed with reeds, 
 
 O'er mountains capp'd with snow, — 
 Each with his captive, far and fast ; 
 Until yon rock-bound ridge was pass'd. 
 And distant stripes of cultured soil 
 Bespoke tlie land of tears and toil. 
 
 '* And tears and toil have been my lot 
 
 Since I the white man's thrall became, 
 And sorer griefs I wish forgot — 
 
 Harsh blows and burning shame. 
 Oh, English chief! thou ne'er canst know 
 The injured bondman's bitter woe, 
 When round his heart, like scorpions, cling 
 Black thoughts, that madden w hile they sting ! 
 
 *' Yet this hard fate I might have borne, 
 And taught in time my soul to bend, 
 
 Had my sad yearning breast forlorn 
 But found a single friend : 
 
 My race extinct or far removed, 
 
 The boor's rou^di brood I coidd have loved — 
 
 But each to whom my bosom turn'd 
 
 Even like a hound the black boy spurn'd ! 
 
 << While, frienrllcss thus, my maiiter's flocks 
 
 I tended on the upland waste, 
 It chanced this fawn Uapt from the rocks, 
 
 B^ wolfish wild-dogs chased :
 
 344 THE BECHUAXA BOY. 
 
 I rescued it, though wounded sore^ 
 All dabbled with its mother's gore^ 
 And nursed it in a cavern wild 
 Until it loved me like a child. 
 
 '' Gently I nursed it ; for I thought 
 (Its hapless fate so like to mine) 
 By good Utika it was brought, 
 
 To bid me not repine — 
 Since in this world of wrong and ill 
 One creature lived to love me still. 
 Although its dark and dazzling eye 
 Beam'd not with human sympathy. 
 
 " Thus lived I^ a lone orphan lad. 
 
 My task the proud boor's flocks to tend : 
 
 And this pet fawn was all I had 
 To love, or call my friend ; 
 
 When, suddenly, with haughty look 
 
 And taunting words, that tyrant took. 
 
 My playmate for his pamper'd boy,. 
 
 Who envied me my only joy. 
 
 " High swell'd my heart ! — But when the star 
 
 Of midnight gleara'd, I softly led 
 My bounding favourite forth, and far 
 
 Into the desert fled. 
 And there, from human kind exiled, 
 Four moons on roots and berries wild 
 I've fared — and braved the beasts of prey 
 To 'scape from spoilers worse than they. 
 
 " But yester morn a Bushman brought 
 The tidings that thy tents were here> 
 
 And uow rejoicingly I've sought 
 Thy presence, void of fear ;.
 
 THE UrXHl ANA BOY. 345 
 
 Because they say, O English chief, 
 Thou scornest not the cajjtive's grief: 
 Then let me sene thee, as thine own. 
 For I am in the world alone !" 
 
 Such was Marossi's touching tale. 
 
 Our breasts they were not made of stone — 
 1 1 is words, his winning looks prevail — 
 
 We took him for ** our own :" 
 And one, witli woman's gentle art, 
 Unlock'd the fountains of his heart, 
 And love gush'd forth, till he became 
 Her f niLD — in every thing but name. 
 
 THE VILLAGE FUNERAL. 
 
 It was a lonely hamlet, where the trees 
 
 Waved, in green beauty, o'er the whitewash'd cot 
 Deepening tlie shade, as the light summer breeze 
 
 Cluster'd the boughs, so beams of sun came not ; 
 Beneath smiled cottage flowers — 'midst all a brook 
 Ran hurrying off to a sequesier'd nook ; 
 
 Then bursting forth beside a rose-wreath'd grot, 
 Mirror'd its beauties — for to it were given, 
 T(j mix the flowers of earth, and clouds of heaven. 
 
 All seem'd enchantment in the flowery dell. 
 Yet all was solemn silence — no glad thrill 
 Of children's voices, breathing forth tht; spell 
 Of ho])e and early life — all, all was still; — 
 .•\iid yet 'twas summer's bright unchnided noon, 
 NN hen May's pale flowers gave place to those of .hiru- ; 
 '.Mid.st which the roving bee ranged forth at will ; 
 M intervals was heard the cuckoo's tone, 
 Bv mimic schoolboy gaily made his own. 
 
 q2
 
 346 THE VILLAGE FUNERAL. 
 
 Lo ! on the ear peal'd forth another sound, 
 
 And slow, and time-paced, came the funeral tread, 
 And one, the bier with fresh-blown roses crown'd, 
 
 As though pale silk waved o'er the youthful dead ; 
 Yet ill did the dark pall accord with flowers, 
 And the bright sun of June's unclouded hours; 
 
 Whilst heavy sighs proclaim'd all joy was fled 
 f'rom him, the childless father, — who gazed on 
 Scenes, which brought memories ofthe loved, and gone. 
 
 There the green oak in civil triumph bore 
 
 The torn remains ofthe once favourite kite; 
 And the rose-tree display 'd a beauteous store 
 
 Of rosy flowers, which, budding, joy'd the sight; 
 And sideways spread a mound of unmown grass. 
 O'er which such bounding feet were used to pass ; 
 
 All these seem'd shrouded in eternal night, 
 Since from their view the father could but borrow 
 Thoughts of past joy, to deepen present sorrow. 
 
 The bell ceased tolling — and the solemn tread 
 
 Of slow receding footsteps died away, 
 Till all was gloom, — for thinking on the dead, 
 
 The village children had forgot their play ; 
 They miss'd their loved companion — he w'no'd chase 
 Their fleetest footsteps oft, and win the race ; 
 
 Sadness, and silence, mark'd the weary day; 
 E'en mothers fearfully look'd on the bloom 
 Of their loved boys — and thought upon the tomb.
 
 347 
 
 THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 BY MISS LAN DON. 
 
 Ay, moralize on Love, and deem 
 
 Its life but as an April gleam, — 
 
 A thing of sunshine and of showers, 
 
 i)( dying leaves and falling flowers. 
 
 Who would not bear the darkest sphere 
 
 That such a rainbow comes to cheer? 
 
 Ay, turn and wail above the tomb, 
 
 Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom ; 
 
 And deem it quite enough to say, — 
 
 Thus Beauty and tims Love decay. 
 
 But must I look upon this spot 
 
 Witii feelings iliy cold heart has not ; 
 
 Those gentle thoughts that consecrate. 
 
 Even while they weep, the Lover's fate? 
 
 I thought upon the star-lit hour. 
 
 When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower, 
 
 And blush'd and smiled the tale to hear, 
 
 Four'd from her dark-eyed cavalier; 
 
 And yet, I too nmst moralize, 
 
 Albeit with gentler sympathies. 
 
 Of all my own fond iieurt can tell 
 
 Of love's despair, and love's farewell, — 
 
 Its many mis(;ries; — its tears 
 
 Like lava, not like dew ; — its fears. 
 
 That make hope painful ; — then its trust, 
 
 So often trampled in the dust ; — 
 
 Neglected, blighted, and betray 'd, 
 
 A sorrow and a mockery made! 
 
 Then change and adverse fortune, all 
 
 That binds and kee|)S sweet Love in thrall. 
 
 Oil, surely, surely, it were best 
 
 To be just for one moment bh-ss'd ; 
 
 Just gaze upon one worship'd eye, 
 
 Just know yourself beloved, and die!
 
 348 
 
 FUNERAL SONG 
 
 FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES. 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. P. L. 
 
 Ix its summer pride array 'd, 
 Low our Tree of Hope is laid ! 
 Low it lies : — in evil hour, 
 Visiting the bridal bower, 
 Death hath levell'd root and flower. 
 Windsor, in thy sacred shade, 
 (Tliis the end of pomp and power !) 
 Have the rites of deadi been paid ; 
 Windsor, in thy sacred shade 
 Is the Flower of Brunswick laid ! 
 
 Ye whose relics rest around, 
 Tenants of this funeral ground ! 
 Know ye. Spirits, who is come. 
 By immitigable doom 
 Summon'd to the untimely tomb ? 
 Late with youth and splendour crown'd. 
 Late in beauty's vernal bloom, 
 Late with love and joyaunce blest; 
 Never more lamented guest 
 Was in Windsor laid to rest. 
 
 Henry, thou of saintly worth, 
 Tliou, to whom thy Windsor gave 
 Nativity, and name, and grave; 
 Tliou art in this hallow'd earth 
 Cradled for the immortal birth. 
 Heavily upon his head 
 Ancestral crimes were visited.
 
 FUNERAL SONG. 349 
 
 He, in spirit, like a child, 
 
 Meek of heart and undeliled, 
 
 Patiently his crown resign'd, 
 
 And fix'd on heaven his heavenly mind, 
 
 Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod, 
 
 His Redeemer and his God. 
 
 Now may he in realms of bliss 
 
 ( ireet a soul as pure as his. 
 
 I'assive as that humble spirit. 
 
 Lies his bold dethroner too ; 
 
 A dreadful debt did he inherit 
 
 To his injured lineage due ; 
 
 Ill-Starr 'd prince, whose martial merit 
 
 His own England long might rue! 
 
 Mournful was that Edward's fame. 
 
 Won in fields contested well. 
 
 While he sought his rightful claim : 
 
 \N'itness Aire's unhappy water, 
 
 Where the ruthless Clifford fell; 
 
 And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter. 
 
 On the day of Towcester's field, 
 
 Gatherintr, in its guilty flood. 
 
 The carnage and the ill-spilt blood, 
 
 That forty thousand lives could yield. 
 
 Cressy was to this but sport, 
 
 Poictiers but a pageant vain. 
 
 And the victory of Spain 
 
 Seem'd a strife for p;tstime meant. 
 
 And the work of Ai^incourt 
 
 Only like a tournament; 
 
 Half the blood which there was spent, 
 
 Had sufficed again to train 
 
 Anjou and ill-yielded Maine, 
 
 Normandy and Afjuitaine, 
 
 And Our I^ady's ancient towers, 
 
 Maugre all the \'alois' powers. 
 
 Had a second time been ours.
 
 350 FUNERAL SOXG. 
 
 A gentle daughter of thy line, 
 Edward, lays her dust with thine. 
 
 Thou, Elizabeth, art here ; 
 Thou to whom all griefs were known 
 Who wert placed upon the bier 
 In happier hour than on the throne. 
 Fatal daughter, fatal mother, 
 Raised to that ill-omen'd station, 
 Father, uncle, sons, and brother, 
 Mourn'd in blood her elevation; 
 Woodville, in the realms of bliss, 
 To thine offspring thou may'st say, 
 Early death is happiness ; 
 And favour'd in their lot are they 
 \Vho are not left to learn below 
 That length of life is length of woe. 
 Lightly let this ground be press'd ; 
 A broken heart is here at rest. 
 
 But thou, Seymour, with a greeting, 
 Such as sisters use at meeting; 
 Joy, and sympathy, and love, 
 Wilt hail her in the seats above. 
 Like in loveliness were ye, 
 By a like lamented doom, 
 Hurried to an early tomb ; 
 While together, spirits blest, 
 Here your earthly relics rest. 
 Fellow angels shall ye be 
 In the angelic company. 
 
 Henry, too, hath here his part ; 
 At the gentle Seymour's side, 
 With his best beloved bride. 
 Cold and quiet, here are laid 
 The ashes of that tiery heart.
 
 FIXF.RAL SOXG. 351 
 
 Not with his tyrannic spirit, 
 
 Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit ; 
 
 No, by Fisher's hoary iiead, 
 
 Hy More, liie learned and tlie trood, 
 
 Hy Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood, 
 
 Hy the life so ba><ely shed 
 
 Of the pride of Norfolk's line, 
 
 By the axe so often red, 
 
 Hy the lire with martyrs fed, 
 
 Hateful Henry, not with thee 
 
 May her happy spirit be ! 
 
 And here lies one, whose tragic name 
 A reverential thought may claim ; 
 The murder'd monarch, whom the grave, 
 Revealing its lon<j: secret, <jrave 
 Again to sight, that we might spy 
 His comely face, and waking eye; 
 There, thrice fifty years, it lay, 
 F.xempt fiom natural decay, 
 Inclosed and bright, as if to say, 
 A plague, of bloodier, baser birth 
 Than that beneath whose rage lie bled. 
 Was loose upon our guilty earth ; — 
 Such awful warning from the dead 
 Was given by that portentous eye ; 
 Then it closed eternally. 
 
 Ye, whose relics rest around. 
 Tenants of this funeral ground ; 
 Even in your immortal spheres, 
 What fresh yearnings will ye feel, 
 W' hen this earthly truest appears ! 
 I'S she leaves in grief and tears; 
 But to you will she reveal 
 Tidings of old F.ngland's weal; 
 Of a righteous war pursued,
 
 352 FUNERAL SONG. 
 
 Long, through evil and through good. 
 With unshaken fortitude ; 
 Of peace in battle twice achieved ; 
 Of her fiercest foe subdued, 
 And Europe from the yoke relieved, 
 Upon that Brabantine plain : 
 Such the proud, the virtuous story, 
 Such the great, the endless glory, 
 Of her father's splendid reign. 
 He, who wore the sable mail, 
 Might at this heroic tale. 
 Wish himself on earth again. 
 
 One who reverently, for thee, 
 Raised the strain of bridal verse, 
 Flower of Brunswick ! mournftilly 
 Lays a garland on thy herse.
 
 TABLE OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 A BEAUTiiVL and laugliing thing 
 Alas! die days of chivalry are fled 
 Alone beneath the moon 1 roved 
 An anxiousJ, lingering, perilous voyage past 
 And is there glory from the Heavens departed 
 And this is death ! how cold and still 
 And thou hast walk'd about — how strange a story 
 A Pilgrim of the Harp was he . 
 Aj)ollo has peep'd through the shutter 
 Are other eyes beguiling, Love . 
 Art thou a thing of mortal birth 
 Ask'st thou my home? my pathway wouldst thou 
 know ... ... 
 
 As sweeps the bark l)efore the breeze 
 As young and jirettv as the bird 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent 
 At midnight in his lonely room . 
 Autumnal leaves. Autumnal leaves 
 Away, away, why dost thou lingt-r Ihmi- 
 A white sail gleaming on the flood . 
 Ay, moralize on Love, and deem 
 
 l^eautiful and radiant girl .... 
 Ilil-.avi; vour^t'l' liciou' folk 
 
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 301 
 214 
 20<i 
 34<i 
 
 1 I'.i 
 •,'40
 
 354 
 
 TABLE OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Behold this ruin ! — 'twas a skull 
 Bird of the heavens ! whose matchless eye 
 Bright, bright is the eye of the ■s\-ild gazelle 
 * Britannia rules the waves ' . . . 
 
 Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky . 
 Cold is the breast, extinct the vital spark 
 Could'st thou but know what 'tis to weep 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove 
 Dost thou idly ask to hear 
 
 Fair flower of silent night .... 
 
 Fair images of sleep .... 
 
 Fare thee well, soul of sweet romance ! farewell 
 
 Fjirewell — a long farewell to thee 
 
 Father, whither art thou gone 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
 
 " Forget thee V — if to dream by night 
 
 Graceful " Phantom of delight !" 
 
 Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest 
 
 Harp of the winds ! what music may compare 
 
 He must be rich whom I could love 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie 
 
 Her mighty sails the breezes swell 
 
 He trod his native land .... 
 
 His foot's in the stirrup 
 
 His was a harp just fit to pour 
 
 His was the master spirit at his spells 
 
 How beautiful upon the wave 
 
 Howe'er the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs
 
 TABLE OF riUST LINES. 355 
 
 I low may this little tablet feign 
 How vain to cast my love away 
 
 I call upon thee in the night 
 
 I came, but they had pass'd away . 
 
 I do not love thee ! — no ! I do not love thee 
 
 If 1 had thought thou couldst have died 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone 
 
 I heard thy fate without a tear . 
 
 I knew thee not ! then wherefore gaze 
 
 I lookit east — 1 lookit west 
 
 1 love my love in the morning 
 
 I love this glad season, as it yearly comes . 
 
 1 love to look on a scene like this . 
 
 I'm twenty-two; — I'm twenty-two 
 
 In a young lady's heart once a secret was lurking 
 
 I never more shall see thee 
 
 I never was a favourite . 
 
 1 never would have dra^^'n Eudymion thus 
 
 In its summer pride array'd 
 
 In silent barren synod met 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 I sat at noontide in my tent 
 
 I saw an angel on a cloud 
 
 I saw her as she once did seem 
 
 I saw her in her morn of hope 
 
 I saw him on the battle eve 
 
 I saw th» e wedded : — thou didst go 
 
 I send you mosses : — once they grew 
 
 I speak not, 1 trace not, I breathe not thy name 
 
 Is she not beautiful, although so pale . 
 
 I think of thee, in the night 
 
 It is the spot I came to sc«'k
 
 356 
 
 TABLE OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 It was a lonely hamlet, -where the trees . 
 
 It was aa aged man, who stood . 
 
 It was not for the diamond ring 
 
 I've pleasant thoughts, that memory brings . 
 
 Leaves quiver in the balmy air , 
 
 Let others seek for empty joys 
 Long years have pass'd since last I stray'd 
 Love is a plant of holier birth 
 
 Magnificent creature ! so stately and bright 
 
 May, queen of blossoms .... 
 
 Memorial frail of youthful years 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here 
 
 'Mid shouts that hail'd her from the shore 
 
 Morn on the waters ! — and, purple and bright 
 
 ' My birthday' — what a difierent sound . 
 
 My father is dead, and ray mother is dead 
 
 My friend, I gave a glad assent 
 
 My mother's grave, my mother's grave 
 
 -My mother's voice ! how oft doth creep . 
 
 Night is the time for rest 
 
 No circling hills may sweeping form 
 
 Not a drum was heard, :^— not a funeral note 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts 
 
 O, breathe no more that simple air 
 
 O glorious is that morning sky . 
 
 Oh, ask me not how long thy gentle love 
 
 Oh! come to my slumber 
 
 Oh ! gentle shade, — reproach me not 
 
 Oh ! how could fancv crown with thee
 
 TABLL or FIRST LINKS. 3.57 
 
 Pane 
 
 Oil ! it is sweet, amid tlie waste of years . 3'^5 
 Oh joyously, triumpbantly, sweet sounds! ye swell 
 
 and float 'J2 
 
 O, holy spirit ! oft when eve ... 20 
 
 Oh ! say not love was never made . . . .'520 
 
 Oh ! wear this simple chain for me . . 326 
 
 Oh when I was a tiny boy . . . . Sh 
 
 Oh wild enchanting horn .... 8.5 
 
 Oh ! would that love had power to raise . . 3.'>2 
 
 Oh ! yet one smiU', though dark may lour . 3-29 
 O ! my love's like the steadfast sun . . .107 
 
 One evening as the sun went down . . 158 
 
 O think it not strange that my soul is shaken . 2.51 
 
 Our fathers ! where are they ? and where . 6.5 
 Our task is done! on Gunga's breast . .190 
 
 Owl! that lovest the boding sky . . . 'Mi 
 
 I'rince William's bark swept on ... 29.5 
 
 Remember me, when summer friends surround thee 82 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not . . . 302 
 
 Rest from thy griefs ! thou art sleeping uow . 290 
 
 .She is not fair to outward view . . . 294 
 
 She leant upon her harp, and thousand.s look'd . 1 UJ 
 
 .Silence o'er sea and earth .... 3,> 
 
 .Slumber lie soft on ihy beautiful eye . . 'J.)"> 
 
 So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage . l.SO 
 
 Softly the moonlight 2.5 
 
 Speak low ! — the place is holy to the breath <•! 
 Spritely Cricket, chirking still 
 
 «>7 
 
 Tears on thy bridal monung! Tears, my love . 30.5
 
 358 TABLE OF FIRST LI>.-ES. 
 
 Page 
 
 That liappy gleam of vernal eyes . . .315 
 
 The bride is dead ! the bride is dead . . 136 
 The brook is purling on its wav ... 49 
 
 The castle clock had toll'd midnight . . 79 
 
 The chalky clifts are fading from mr view . 121 
 
 The clouds were gathering red and dark . 264 
 
 The forfeit's paid, — we pardon thee . . 258 
 
 The foimtains mingle with the river . . 170 
 
 The leaves are falling from the trees . .311 
 
 The masters of the earth have died . . 50 
 
 The melancholy days are come . . .198 
 
 The moon shines bright . . . . 135 
 The nest of the dove is rifled .... 254 
 
 The Northern Star sailed o'er the Bar . . 160 
 
 The pilgrim fathers — where are they . . 208 
 
 There is a dear and lovely power ... 58 
 
 There is a multitude, in number like . . 18 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart . 280 
 
 There is an hour when leaves are still . . 259 
 
 There is a sweetness in woman's decay . . 73 
 
 There may be pleasure in the sound . . 52 
 
 There was a tempest brooding in the air . 109 
 
 There was a time — sweet time of youthful folly . 217 
 The Rhine ! the Rhine ! — May on thy flowing river 261 
 
 The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain . 222 
 
 The same — and oh ! how beautiful ! — the same . 137 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear . . . 285 
 
 The sun went down in beauty — not a cloud . 336 
 
 The thought of early death was in my heart . 288 
 
 The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear . 261 
 
 The water roU'd — the water swell'd . . 303 
 
 The world is full of Poetry — the air . . I 
 
 They are flown 277
 
 TAULK OF riRST LINES. 
 
 They g^ew in beauty, side by side 
 They tell me, geutie lady, that they deck thee for 
 a bride ....... 
 
 They tell me, lady, that thy face 
 
 Thiue is a strain to read among the hills 
 
 J'his spacious mausoleum holds . . 
 
 Those few pale Autumn flowers 
 
 Thou art not silent ! oracles are thine 
 
 Thou graceful tree ..... 
 
 Thou, to whose power reluctantly we bend 
 
 Thy spirit hath a pure, embalming ray 
 
 'Tis home where'er the heart is 
 
 'Tis night, and in darkness ; — the visions of youth 
 
 'Tis Stud she once was beautiful ; — and still 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train 
 
 Too proud of heart to tell the grief 
 
 'Twas on a sultry summer noon 
 
 'Twixt Wit and Wisdom, Beauty sat 
 
 Lp with thy thin transparent sail . 
 
 Voice of the mighty deep 
 
 We break the glass, whose sacred wine . 
 
 Weep not for her ! her si)an was like the sky 
 
 W^e met but in one giddy dance 
 
 W hat hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells 
 
 W hat strange enchantment meets my view 
 
 When evening o'er the western hill 
 
 When night sits on the earth 
 
 When the dying flame of day 
 
 When the summer harvest was gather'd in
 
 360 TABLE OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Pasp 
 
 Where are now the dreaming flowers . . 228 
 
 Where is the Sea"? — I languish here . . 299 
 
 Whose imp art thou, •vs'ith dimpled cheek . 333 
 
 Who sleeps below ? — who sleeps below . . 101 
 
 Why hast thou bound around, with silver rim , f)4 
 
 Why linger on this battle heath ... 92 
 
 Will then no pitying sword its succour lend . 262 
 
 With work in hand, perchance some fairy cap . 291 
 
 Would that the hour you caJl'd me thine . 320 
 
 Ye dear companions of my silent hours . . 2S^5 
 
 Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true 142 
 
 Ye tell me 'tis the opening hour , . . 193 
 
 Yes, I am rich in all excuse to mourn . . 328 
 
 Yes ! bury me deep in the infinite sea . . 226 
 
 Yes ! this is death ! but in its fairest form . . 272 
 
 PRINTED EY C. WHITTIXGHAM, 
 CHISWICK. 
 
 IJ
 
 PR 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DA 
 STAMPED BELOW.
 
 3 1205 01904 2629 
 
 B 
 
 II II III! II 111 I ill lilllli 
 000 024 201 6