THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 RUSSELL W. BEMIS
 
 m

 
 BOUQUET, 
 
 OR 
 
 SPIRIT 
 
 OF 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 HENRY F. ANNERS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Prefatory Sonnet .... 9 
 
 The Only Daughter ... 11 
 
 New Scene in William Tell 14 
 Marius amidst the Ruins of 
 
 Carthage 23 
 
 The Forsaken Child . . 28 
 
 Ophelia, a Dirge .... 29 
 
 She recks not of Fortune . 31 
 
 Scot and Scotland ... 33 
 
 The Ganges 43 
 
 Maisuna 45 
 
 Rio Verde 47 
 
 Lament of the Poet Savage 50 
 
 The Wandering Wind . . 58 
 
 Lines, by C. Verrale, Esq. 60 
 Lines, by the Author of the 
 
 Helitrope 61 
 
 712569
 
 The Fallen Lime Tree . . 63 
 Sonnet 65 
 
 Night 
 
 66 
 
 A Song of the Rose . . . 
 
 69 
 
 Summer 
 
 73 
 
 The Sun and Moon . . . 
 
 75 
 
 On the Loss of the Rothsay 
 
 
 Castle Steamboat . . . 
 
 78 
 
 And I too in Arcadia . . 
 
 81 
 
 Infancy 
 
 84 
 
 Paris on the Morning- of 
 
 
 Louis XVL's Execution 
 
 86 
 
 A Lament on the Death of 
 
 
 Mrs. Campbell . . . 
 
 93 
 
 On the Death of an Infant . 
 
 95 
 
 The Temptation in the Wil- 
 
 
 derness 
 
 97 
 
 The Graves of Hindostan . 
 
 99 
 
 Cottage Emigrants' Fare- 
 
 
 well 
 
 106
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Epicedium 108 
 
 To Derwent Water . . .109 
 
 Windermere 110 
 
 To the Wild Fern . . .111 
 Oh, let us never meet again 114 
 
 Noon 116 
 
 The Unwilling Bride . .117 
 The Prodigal Son ... 120 
 
 With Christ 121 
 
 The Drop and the River . 123 
 The Farewell of Colonna . 130 
 Thirteen Years Ago . . .135 
 The History of a Life . . 138 
 Tomb of Abelard andEloisa 139 
 The Euthanasia .... 140 
 The Lonely Heart ... 141 
 Our Own Fire-side . . . 143 
 
 Stanzas to .... 145 
 
 Song— Up, Mary, Love . 146 
 Be Heaven my Stay . .148
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 Madeira 150 
 
 Love 153 
 
 Song 155 
 
 The Snow 156 
 
 The Death of Rachel . . 157 
 
 Memory 159 
 
 Invocation to Dreams . .160 
 
 The Nautilus 163 
 
 The Little Shepherdess . 165 
 Festa of Madonna Dei Fiori 168 
 The Dying Boy to the Sloe- 
 blossom 171 
 
 The Mother's Hope . . . 175 
 A Hymn to the Redeemer . 178 
 The Spirits' Land . . . 182 
 Going to Service .... 184 
 The Prophet Child ... 188 
 Words of Trees and Flowers 189 
 Come and Gone .... 193 
 A Winter Sunset .... 200
 
 CONTENTS. 7 
 
 Lines by Mrs. Fairlie . . 901 
 
 Creation and Redemption . 203 
 Lord Surrey and the Fair 
 
 Geraldine 204 
 
 St. Mawgan Church and 
 
 Lanhern Nunnery . . 208 
 Etty's Rover ..... 211 
 The Orphan Ballad-singers 214 
 Caldron Snout, Westmore- 
 land 216 
 
 Mardale Head .... 218 
 
 Ivy Bridge, Devonshire . 219 
 
 The English Boy ... 221 
 
 Nathan's Kieve .... 224 
 The Mother's Lament over 
 
 her sleeping Child . . 228 
 
 Lines to an old Oak Tree . 229 
 The Dying. By Mary 
 
 Emily Jackson . . . 232
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 Alone in Crowds to wan- 
 der on 233 
 
 Dirge at Sea 235 
 
 A Thought at Sunset . . 236 
 Burial of William the Con- 
 queror 237 
 
 The Blind Flower-girl's 
 
 Song 240 
 
 The Changed One ... 242 
 
 The Mother's Hope . . 243 
 
 The Dying Soldier ... 246 
 
 The Sisters of Charity . 247 
 
 The Bridal .... i 254
 
 PREFATORY SONNET. 
 
 Once more, my youthful friends, as 
 wont, we meet 
 Around the Christmas hearth. The 
 
 nut-brown ale 
 Flows gratefully, I wot, with song 
 and tale, 
 Alternate blithe and sad, in mixture 
 
 sweet. 
 Once more I leave my silent calm re- 
 treat 
 Your social circles courteously to 
 
 hail ; 
 Bringing some gifted friends, who 
 seldom fail 
 To grace our party : Pray give each a 
 
 seat. 
 We come, each in his turn, to say our 
 say. 
 In verse or prose, intent all hearts 
 to gain ,- 
 Blending the arch and simple, grave 
 and gay, 
 But leaning aye unto the moral 
 strain ;
 
 10 PREFATORY SONNICT. 
 
 Hopeful, when idle hours have passed 
 away, 
 That fruit to feed reflection may re- 
 main. 
 
 The Editor.
 
 11 
 
 BOUQUET. 
 
 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY ISABEL HILL. 
 
 Here she comes, the Treasure ! 
 
 Bringing home her flowers ; 
 When did mother's pleasure 
 
 E'er deck girl like ours ? 
 Lest the sun should stain her, 
 Lest the breeze should pain her, 
 
 What fond fears are shown ! 
 Of her beauty vainer 
 
 Than ever of thine own. 
 
 Why that glance so tearful ? 
 
 Health is on her cheek. 
 Modest, mental, cheerful, 
 
 Winning, kind, and meek i
 
 12 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 With youth's conscious graces 
 Stealing to their places, 
 
 Where she hath not guessed 
 Though they stretch the laces 
 
 Of her bodiced breast 
 
 While all childhood lingers 
 
 On the brow above, 
 yet those airy fingers 
 
 Tempt the lip of love ; 
 Though not yet retiring 
 From his kiss aspiring, 
 
 'Tis forgot ere past ; 
 Ours alone desiring : 
 
 Would that this could last! 
 
 But those steps so steady, 
 
 And those guarded eyes, 
 Mark the teens already. 
 
 They excuse our sighs ; 
 Sure she'll ne'er deceive us, 
 Yet may nature grieve us, 
 
 Seeing her so fair, 
 Knowing she must leave us, 
 
 After all our care ! 
 
 Kindred ties that bosom 
 Fill with peace to-day ;
 
 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 We have reared the blossom — 
 
 Who will bear away ? 
 Envy well may move us, 
 Strangers prized above us, 
 
 May Heaven bless her vow ! 
 But — she cannot love us 
 
 Then, alas ! as now. 
 
 Other wills obeying, 
 
 Be they but as kind ! 
 Ne'er her trust betraying, 
 
 We must grow resigned ; 
 In her honours priding. 
 Selfish sorrows hiding — 
 
 Hush ! she's here, she's here ! 
 Sure that kiss seemed chiding — 
 
 Now, what dared we fear ?
 
 14 
 
 NEW SCENE IN WILUAM TELI* 
 
 BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 Inscribed with gratitude to Miss Ellen Tree, as tb» 
 spirited " Emma " in " William Tell," and the pa 
 thetic "Julia " in the " Hunchback." 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE L 
 
 Tell's Cottage. — Melcktal asleep up 
 on a couch, at the head of which Emma, 
 is watching. 
 
 Emma. (Rising and coming for' 
 vxird.)~-l never knew a weary nighi 
 
 before ! 
 I have seen the sun a dozen times go 
 
 down, 
 And still no William : — and the storm 
 
 was on, 
 Yet have I laid me down in peace to 
 
 sleep. 
 The mountain with the lightning all 
 
 ablaze, 
 And shaking with the thunder. But 
 
 to-night
 
 WILLIAM TELL. 15 
 
 Mine eyes refuse to close ! The old 
 
 man rests : 
 Pain hath outworn itself, and turned 
 
 to ease. 
 How deadly calm 's the night I — What's 
 
 that ? — I'm grown 
 An idiot with my fears. I do not know 
 The avalanche! Great power that 
 
 hurls it down, 
 Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little 
 
 steps ! 
 What keeps him ? 'tis but four hoius' 
 
 journey hence : 
 He'd rest : then four hours back again. 
 
 What keeps him ? 
 Emi would sure be found by him — he 
 
 knows 
 The track, well as he knows the road 
 
 to Altorf. 
 Melch. Help ! {In his steep.) 
 Emma. What 's the matter ? Only 
 
 the old man dreaming . 
 He thinks again they're pulling out his 
 
 eyes. 
 I'm sick with terror ! Merciful powers, 
 
 what 's this 
 That fills my heart with horrible alami, 
 And yet it cannot see ? 
 Melch. {Wa/iing.) Where am I?
 
 16 WILLIAM TELL 
 
 Emma. Father! 
 
 Melch. My daughter, is it thou I 
 thank heaven I'm here. 
 Is it day yet ? 
 
 Emma. No. 
 
 Melch. Is't far on the night ? 
 
 Emma. Methinks about the turn on't 
 
 Melch. Is the boy come back ? 
 
 Emma. No, father. 
 
 Melch. Nor thy husband ? 
 
 Emma. No. 
 
 Melch. A woful wife and mother 
 have I made thee ! 
 Would thou hadst never seen me. 
 
 Emma. Father! 
 
 Melch. Child ! 
 
 Emma. Methinks I hear a step ! — ^I 
 do ! — {Knocking) — A knock ! 
 
 Melch. 'Tis William. 
 
 Emma. No, it is not William's knock. 
 {Opens the door.) 
 I told you so ! — Your will. 
 
 Enter Stranger. 
 
 Stran. Seeing a light, 
 I e'en made bold to knock to ask for 
 
 shelter, . 
 For I have missed my way. 
 
 Emma. Whence come you, friend ?
 
 WILLIAM TELL. 17 
 
 Stran. From Altorf. 
 
 Emma. Altorf! Any news from 
 
 thence ? 
 Stran. Ay ! news to harrow parents' 
 
 hearts, and make 
 The barren bless themselves that they 
 
 are childless. 
 Emma. May heaven preserve my 
 
 boy ! 
 Melch. What says the news ? 
 Stran. Art thou not Melchta — he 
 
 whose eyes 'tis said 
 The tyrant has torn out ? 
 Melch. Yes, friend, the same. 
 Stran. Is this thy cottage ? 
 Melch. No ; 'tis William Tell's. 
 Stran. 'Tis William Tell's ?— and 
 
 that 's his wife ? — Good night. 
 Emma. {Rushmg between him and the 
 
 door.) Thou stirr'st not hence until 
 
 thy news be told. 
 Stran. My news ? In sooth 'tis no- 
 thing thou wouldst heed. 
 Emma. 'Tis something none should 
 
 heed so well as I ! 
 Stran. I must be gone. 
 Emma. Thou seest a tigress, friend, 
 Spoiled of her mate and young, and 
 
 yearning for them.
 
 18 WILLIAM TELL. 
 
 Don't thwart her! Come, thy news 
 
 What fear'sl thou, man ? 
 What more has she to dread who reads 
 
 thy looks 
 And knows the most has come ? Thy 
 news — Is't bondage ? 
 Stran. It is. 
 Emma. Thank heaven it is not 
 
 death I — Of one, or two ? 
 Slran. Of two. 
 Emma. A father and a son, 
 Is't not ? 
 Stran. It is. 
 
 Emma. My husband and my son 
 Are in the tyrant's power I There 's 
 
 worse than that — 
 What 's that is news to harrow parents' 
 
 breasts, 
 The which, the thought to only tell, 
 
 'twould seem, 
 Drives back the blood to thine ? Thy 
 
 news, I say ! 
 Wouldst thou be merciful — this is not 
 
 mercy. 
 Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bow- 
 man's aim, 
 Wouldst thou not have the fatal arrow 
 speed.
 
 WILLIAM TELL. 19 
 
 Rather than watch it hanging in the 
 
 string ? 
 Thou'lt d rive me mad ! Let fly at once. 
 Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, 
 
 whate'er it is ! 
 Stran. To save himself and child 
 from certain death, 
 Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed 
 Upon the stripling's head. 
 
 Melch. My child ! my child ! — 
 Speak to me, stranger, hast thou killed 
 her? 
 Emma. No ! 
 No, father, I'm the wife of William 
 
 Tell; 
 Oh, but to be a man I to have an arm 
 To fit a heart swelling with the sense 
 
 of wrong — 
 Unnatural — insufferable wrong ! 
 When makes the tyrant trial of his 
 skill? 
 Slran. To-morrow. 
 Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill. 
 Inspire thy daughter ! On the head of 
 
 him 
 Who makes his pastime of a mother's 
 
 pangs, 
 Launch down thy vengeance by a 
 mother'^ hand.
 
 aO WILLIAM TELL. 
 
 Know'st the signal when the hills shall 
 rise? {To MelchtaL.) 
 Melch. Are they to rise ? 
 Emma. I see thou knowest naught. 
 Slran. Something 's on foot. 'Twas 
 only yesterday, 
 That, travelling from our canton, I 
 
 espied, 
 Slow toiling up a steep, a mountaineer 
 Of brawny limb, upon his back a load 
 Of faggots bound. Curious to see what 
 
 end 
 Was worthy of such labour, after him 
 I took the cliffj and saw its lofty top 
 Receive his load, which went but to 
 
 augment 
 A pile of many another. 
 Emma. 'Tis by fire I 
 Fire is the signal for the hills to rise I 
 {Rushes out.) 
 Melch. Went she not forth ? 
 Stran. She did — she 's here again, 
 And brings with her a lighted brand. 
 
 Melch. My child. 
 What dost thou with a lighted brand ? 
 {Re-enter Emma withabrand.) 
 Emma. Prepare 
 To give the signal for the hills to rise.
 
 WILLIAM TELL. 21 
 
 Melch. WTiere are the faggots, child, 
 
 for such a blaze ? 
 Emma. I'll find the faggots, father. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Melch. She gone again ? 
 Stran. She is — I think into her 
 
 chamber. 
 Emma. [Rushing in.) Father, the 
 
 pile is fired I 
 Melch. VVliat pile, my child ? 
 Emma. The joists and rafters of our 
 
 cottage, father. 
 Melch. Thou hast not fired thy cot- 
 tage — but thou hast ! 
 Alas! I hear the crackling of the flames. 
 Emma. Say'st thou alas I when I do 
 say, thank heaven ? 
 Father, this blaze will set the land 
 
 ablaze 
 With fire that shall preserve, and not 
 
 destroy it. 
 Blaze on ! blaze on ! Oh, may'st thou 
 
 be a beacon 
 To light its sons, enslaved, to liberty ! 
 How fast it spreads I A spirit 's in the 
 
 fire! 
 It knows the work it does. — {Goes to 
 the door.)— The land is free !
 
 22 MARIUS. 
 
 Vonder 'a another blaze ! — Beyond that 
 
 shoots 
 Anotlier up ! — Anon will every hill 
 Redden with vengeance. Father, 
 
 come ! whate'er 
 Betide us, worse, we're certain, can't 
 
 befall, 
 And better may! Oh, be it liberty — 
 Safe hearths and homes, husbands and 
 
 children. — Come, 
 It spreads apace. — Blaze on ! blaze on ! 
 
 blaze on ! ExeuiiL
 
 23 
 
 MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF 
 CARTHAGE. 
 
 Maiten of pusioD iway it to the mood 
 Of what it likes, or lomhet.—Shalispcar. 
 
 I. 
 
 Carthage ! Where now thy beauty ! 
 
 where, alas ! 
 The pride of pageantry, thy pomp ; and 
 
 where 
 Those mighty navies which had aw'd 
 
 the world ? 
 Their flaunting sails are now for ever 
 
 furl'd ! 
 Thy halls are desolate ; the wiry grass 
 And weeds — the rankest — choke thy 
 
 pathways : — there 
 Sits moody SUence, pointing to the 
 
 skies, 
 With palsied tongue, with fix'd and 
 
 rayless eyes, 
 Where by the hand of everlasting 
 
 fame 
 Is traced, in living light, immortal Sci- 
 
 piu's name.
 
 24 
 
 II. 
 
 Carthage! within thy walls the lizard 
 
 dwells, 
 Where erst the cricket chirp'd ; and 
 
 the foul cells 
 Of squalid reptiles are discovered, 
 
 where 
 The sleek mouse had her dwelling. 
 
 The meek hare 
 Sits unnffrighted 'mid thy shatter'd 
 
 domes, 
 Where heroes once had fix'd their 
 
 noblest homes. 
 Amid thy ruins, vast and desolate, 
 INo human creature wanders ; or but 
 
 one, 
 Alone, — a stem and solitary man. 
 Stern as the blacken'd rock he sits upon, 
 Harsher his spirit, and as dark as fate, 
 There on the fragment of a massy 
 
 stone 
 That, ere the fiercely-crackling flames 
 
 had riven 
 Its giant bulk look'd up, and laugh'd at 
 
 heav'n, 
 Perch'd like a vulture, ominous and 
 
 grim, 
 The very reptiles all avoiding him,
 
 25 
 
 He sits, his moody reverie began, 
 
 Which stirr'd his heart to slaughter. — 
 There alone. 
 
 Houseless he sits, upon that rocky 
 throne, 
 
 His own appropriate emblem ; for the 
 flint 
 
 Could not more sternly brave the thun- 
 der's dint 
 
 Than his hard heart compassion's soft 
 appeal. 
 
 Amid the scene his dizzy senses reel 
 
 With thoughts too dire to utter. 
 
 III. 
 
 There he sits, 
 By whom the mighty Cimbri were 
 
 chastis'd. 
 As if his very soul were paralyz'd, 
 And yet his fierce eye glares in moody 
 
 fits 
 O'er the surrounding waste, as if he 
 
 vievv'd 
 His own state pirtur'd in its solitude. 
 Dark and as still as night he sits alone, 
 Like a doom'd spirit, on that riven 
 
 stone. 
 And in his murkiness of mind, broods
 
 20 MARILS. 
 
 Heal or imagin'd wrongs, while o'er his 
 
 heart — 
 Thro' wliich the hiack blood bounds, 
 
 with fcver'd start — 
 A thirst of vengeance steals, and at the 
 
 core 
 Parches and bums it up. — lie looks 
 
 towards Rome, 
 The city of his pride, the warrior's 
 
 home ; — 
 How di ft 'rent to the ruins round him 
 
 lying : 
 That city's rival once, which, now no 
 
 more, 
 Sends forth lier barks to earth's remo- 
 test shore. 
 He looks towards Rome — imperial 
 
 Kome^-defying 
 The wide world round her. Rome ! he 
 
 looks towards thee. 
 While his heart throbs with inward 
 
 agony. 
 And from his eye revenge's hot streams 
 
 pour. 
 
 IV. 
 Soon the bark bears hira o'er the waters 
 
 — soon 
 Joy, in the flood of woe, shall quench 
 
 her beams,
 
 MARII'P 27 
 
 And her faint voice be drown'd in the 
 shrill screams 
 
 Of sanguinary slaughter. — Ere the 
 moon 
 
 Again shall fill her silver horns with 
 light. 
 
 The sun of happiness shall set in night 
 
 Marius is nigh thee, I^me ! a heartless 
 son. 
 
 That, like the adder, loves to prey upon 
 
 The Ixiwels of its parent. — Ah I be- 
 ware ! 
 
 The voice of carnage soon shall rend 
 the air — 
 
 Rome hears it now — she hears, with 
 mad surprise, 
 
 And glutted with her blood, the ruth- 
 less savage dies.
 
 28 
 
 THE FORSAKEN ClfiLD. 
 
 Lie down in that low quiet bed, 
 
 Thou weary care-worn child of clay, 
 The earth's cold pillow props thy head, 
 
 Thine eyes have r-losed on busy day; 
 No sounds thy deafened ear can reach, 
 
 No dreams thy aching brain perjjlex, 
 Nor scornful eye, nor taunting speech, 
 
 Thy meek and wounded spirit vex. 
 
 A heavy doom was thine to bear, 
 
 No peace to hope, no rest to find, 
 With none thy lot to sooth or share, 
 
 Poor outcast of a world unkind ! 
 What hour of thy brief tearful life, 
 
 From care, from bitterness was free ? 
 And now escaped the unequal strife. 
 
 Blest sleeper, shall we weep for thee? 
 
 Oh ! close the turf above her head. 
 
 And hide her from the world's cold 
 eyes. 
 They shall not now profane the dead, 
 
 Nor see how calm and still she lie& 
 Come let us steal away, and bid 
 
 These tears of selfisa sorrow cease. 
 And leave her here in darkness hid. 
 
 To taste her new-found blessing — 
 peace
 
 OPHEUA. 
 
 BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD. 
 
 Softly to the earth restore, 
 
 One whom for an hour she gave ; 
 
 With gentle steps, as though ye bore 
 Virtue's self unto the grave ; 
 
 In this darkness, cold and deep, 
 
 Lay her silently to sleep. 
 
 Pilgrims to a vacant shrine, 
 O'er the desert slow we toil; 
 
 Busy workers in a mine, 
 Reaping but the barren soil. 
 
 Care and grief besiege the breast, 
 
 Motion ever — never rest. 
 
 But this fairest girl hath won 
 
 Sleep that breeds no troubled dream, 
 
 And the earth we heap upon 
 Her virgin bosom, ne'er shall teem, 
 
 However bright belbre it fade, 
 
 With sweeter flower than here is laid.
 
 30 
 
 Water blind and brooding oozo, 
 Which in silent death, conceive 
 
 Yielded back what now we lose, 
 In the dumb still ground to leave. 
 
 Never more while time shall be, 
 
 Earth, must she be raised from ihoe. 
 
 All the pleasure thou canst give, 
 All the bliss, thou tak'st away : 
 
 Springs still flowing while we live, 
 Lie frozen in that heart to-day. 
 
 Cold and dry may be their bed, 
 
 Yet warm as sunshine to the dead. 
 
 For virtue shall the mould perfume 
 
 With odours of her sacrifice, 
 And love shall shed his softest bloom 
 
 On the verdure where she lies — 
 And peace, the child of hojie and 
 
 prayer. 
 Shall bend the knee, and worship 
 there.
 
 31 
 
 SHE RECKS NOT OF FORTUNE. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 She recks not of fortune, though high 
 her degree ; 
 
 She says she 's contented with true 
 Ifjve and me ; 
 
 And the truth of her heart ray fond rap- 
 ture descries 
 
 In the bloom of her blushes and light 
 of her eyes. 
 
 How fearful is love to the faithful 
 and young I 
 
 How trembles the heart, and how fal- 
 ters the tongue; 
 
 While the soft rising sigh, and the 
 sweet springing tear, 
 
 Check the haIf-siM)ken vow and the 
 glance too sincere I 
 
 Her hand to my lips when at parting I 
 press, 
 
 And she bids rae adieu with a timid 
 caress, 
 
 She glides off like a sun-beam pursued 
 by a cloud. 
 
 And I kiss every Hower her dear foot- 
 steps have bowed.
 
 32 SHE RECKS NOT OF FORTUNE. 
 
 As the fawn steals for play from the 
 
 ptill-feeding Hock, 
 As darts the young hawk from his hold 
 
 in the rock, 
 So peeps forth my Lucy when none 
 
 are aware, 
 So flies her fond lover her ramble to 
 
 share. 
 
 Wo linger at noon by the rocks and 
 
 the coves 
 Where the slow-winding stream sleeps 
 
 in nooks which he loves, — 
 When the freshness of spring has been 
 
 mellowed by June, 
 And the paren^bird warbles a tenderer 
 
 tune. 
 
 We scarce talk of love, — she is scared 
 
 at the sound ; 
 But it breathes from the skies, and it 
 
 bursts from the ground : 
 Of whatever we talk, it is love that 
 
 we mean — 
 On whatever we look, it is love that is 
 
 seen. 
 
 J. F.
 
 33 
 
 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 EPISTLE TO GEORGE CATTERMOLE, ESQ. 
 
 Again, upon my waking dreara. 
 Rise the gray cairn ami lonely stream; 
 Lost voices to my ear return 
 From many a long-forgotten urn : 
 The night-wind, waiUng sad and chill, 
 Comes wihlly from the desert hill ; 
 O'er the dim heath the moon-beams 
 
 creep 
 To many a tumulary heap ; 
 And gliding thus from tomb to tomb. 
 Wander, like corpse-lights, through the 
 
 gloom. 
 
 What forms are those, of dusty hue, 
 That keep this mystic rendezvous ? 
 From the gray cairn, the ruined tower. 
 The sullen stream, the antique bower. 
 From the poor hind's deserted bield, 
 From yonder proud historic field, 
 From hill, from plain, from rocky shore, 
 From wold, and darkling wood, they 
 pour, 
 
 3
 
 34 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 From silent lake and lonely glen— 
 Who hath called up those shapes again ? 
 
 Not mine the magic to compel 
 The past unto my wizard spell — 
 To me is given a heart alone 
 Responsive to the master tone ; 
 I pay no vows at nature's shrine 
 Save through her chosen priests divine; 
 And thus, a lowly devotee, 
 I bow, dear Cattermole, to thee. 
 
 Wave then thy mystic wand, and 
 
 shower 
 Upon the page those tints of power, 
 To summon from their mouldering 
 
 grave 
 The fair, the faithful, and the brave. 
 Small though his portion in thine art, 
 Yet dull of eye, and dead of heart, 
 Thy comrade on this spot would be, 
 To claim no fellowsliip with thee ! 
 Threw not that cold and troubled sky 
 Its shadows o'er his infant eye ? 
 Climbed he not yonder mountain's side 
 In boyhood's joy, and boyhood's pride? 
 Plunged he not in yon dusky main. 
 Deep as the wild duck, and again 
 Upbounding, shouted, shrill and brave. 
 Defiance to the stormy wave ?
 
 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 35 
 
 Oh, many a weary league since then 
 I've wandered in the haunts of men; 
 Oh, many a land liath spread for me 
 Her fairest, richest canopy ! 
 Oh, many a hand, in friendship's 
 
 grasp, 
 To mine hath given clasp for clasp ! 
 Oh, many a bovver, oh, many a grove, 
 Have listened to my notes of love ! 
 Yet, exiled from my native strand, 
 Where have I found a sweeter land, 
 Or lovelier love, or truer hand ? 
 Onward I roved on foreign ground, 
 But no continuing city found. 
 An unweaned child — I could not rest 
 For thinking of my mother's breast: 
 A stranger and a pilgrim— I 
 Could find no other place to die 
 But ever turned a longing heart 
 To thee who wert, to thee who art, 
 In sun and shade, through good and ill 
 Scotland — my home — ray country still 
 
 But not alone th' instinctive band 
 Which binds us to our native land — 
 Not on the wanderer's heart alone 
 Those fairy linivs of love are thrown ; 
 Thought, taste, and fancy on the side 
 Of holy nature are allied.
 
 36 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 And art hath taught me to adore 
 The charms I only loved before. 
 
 Romantic Clyde ! beloved stream ! 
 Thus rising on my lonely dream, 
 Thou seem'st a goddess of old song 
 To whom no traits of earth belong — 
 ^ spirit of beauty, whose bright eye 
 Doth rule the tides of poesy : 
 Thy circling hills, and waving woods, 
 Thy currents calm, and headlong 
 
 floods, 
 The rich wmds o'er thy bosom straying, 
 The music in thy groves delaying, 
 Thy birds, and flowers, and whisper- 
 ing trees — 
 But exoteric s^^mbols these : 
 While thou, the goddess' self, apart 
 Dwell'st in thy faithful votary's heart, 
 Each meaner feeling to refine. 
 To prompt and urge the headlong line, 
 To raise, console, sustain, and shower 
 High influence on his darkest hour. 
 
 And smMe not, though so wild ray 
 
 dream 
 When that fair river is the theme : 
 For every spot its banks around 
 To me, my friend, is haunted ground.
 
 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 37 
 
 Time did notquench my youthful flame, 
 Nor slow and dull experience tame : 
 I saw not, drooping, day by day, 
 Or falling, one by one, away, 
 The fairy flowers, the visions high 
 That gleamed before my infant eye. 
 I saw not, stripped of leaf and tree, 
 The paradise that bloomed lor me, 
 Tdl the bleak winds of life at last 
 Ran moaning o'er a barren waste. 
 Flung sudden on the ocean stream, 
 While yet in my lirist morning dream, 
 I saw the lost, the lovely land. 
 Recede, like some enchanted strand : 
 What marvel, then, if longing eye 
 I turned towards my native sky ? 
 What marvel if a sod so sweet 
 Ne'er blest the weary Ishmael's feet? 
 What marvel if that mystic spot 
 Seemed heaven to the wandering Scot? 
 
 Strange, how our superstitions twine, 
 Each with the next, until a line 
 They weave, that llirough each varied 
 
 stage 
 Runs on from infancy to age, 
 Linking the spring with summer wea- 
 ther, 
 And chaining youth and yeara together.
 
 38 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 Thus did that nameless, shapeless 
 
 dread, 
 Which scared me on ray cradled bed, 
 (An embryo terror, blank and dim,) 
 Resolve into the spectre grim : 
 Then paled the stars, then moaned the 
 
 breeze, 
 Then voices whispered in the trees. 
 And flitting lights the church-yard o'er, 
 And shapes that, beckoning, stalked 
 
 before, 
 And shrieks from forth the tumbling 
 
 flood, 
 Curdled so cold my boyhood's blood ! 
 
 But these, when boyhood's courage 
 
 grew. 
 As if at cock-crow, sudden flew, 
 And in their stead a mystic band 
 Rise gloomy in the troubled land ; 
 O'er the new scene of fear preside 
 The hags that on the tempest ride ; 
 And wizards fling their potent spell 
 Over the world invisible. 
 Yet soon begins the sky to clear, 
 As waxeth last the human year; 
 To broomstick, witch, and warlock 
 
 %. 
 Their latest ' whirs ' in distance die ;
 
 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 39 
 
 Sinks in the ground th' unhallowed fire, 
 And with a hiss the flames expire. 
 
 Then smiles the scorched earth anew, 
 Then falls again the balmy dew, 
 Then flowers exhale their od'rous 
 
 breath 
 Where rose the noisome steams of 
 
 death, 
 And fountains run their margins o'er 
 Where tlie hell-cauldron hissed be- 
 fore. 
 No incantation, deep and strong, 
 The echoes of the Clyde prolong; 
 But fairy harps, from bower and grove, 
 Awake the dulcet notes of love. 
 While fairy feet in mirthful dance, 
 Among the glancing moon-beams 
 
 glance ; 
 And fairy voices, swelling high. 
 Bear burden to the minstrelsy. 
 
 Not quite of fear my tremor tells. 
 Nor quite in faith my bosom swells, 
 When 'neath my wondering glance 
 
 there grow 
 The glories of that spectral show: 
 O'er my half wakened heart I feel 
 A strange unwanted softness steal ;
 
 40 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 
 
 My bosom heaves with aimless sighs, 
 And tears bedew my half-shut eyes. 
 Not all a dream ! not all a dream ! 
 Mingling with that small beauty's 
 
 beam, 
 I see, and with a blush confess. 
 The traits of mortal loveliness: 
 Almost as bright, and tiny too. 
 Some lassie, with her eyes of blue, 
 Hath thus usurped, in iace and mien, 
 The graces of the elfin queen ! 
 O, fair delusion! loved deceit! 
 Dear hast thou cost me, poisoned sweet J 
 With fiction still worse fiction blending, 
 In dreams begun, in falsehood ending 
 
 But hark ! a blast of battle-horn. 
 On Kempuck's midnight breezes borne 
 Comes sudden down thy lone hill side, 
 And wakes the echoes of the Clyde, 
 Which, starting at the hostile strain. 
 Answer that challenge back again ; 
 Not long my ear the sound retains. 
 Nor long the shadowy joust remains 
 To glad or grieve my boyish eye 
 With deeds of Elfin chivalry. 
 With sterner shades the air is thick — 
 Boils my young blood, my breath cornea 
 quick ; •
 
 SCOT AND SCOTLAND. 41 
 
 1 see from many a hoary tomb 
 My country's ancient heroes come ; 
 From old historic fields afar, 
 The stately march of Scotland's war 
 Echoing o'er hill and moreland gray, 
 All feebler visions scares away. 
 
 And thus, dear comrade, did my mind 
 Its nurture, or its poison, find : 
 And thus, the flowery mazes past, 
 Did fiction lead to truth at last, 
 And fancy her wild garlands tie 
 O'er the stern brows of history. 
 
 Ask not of me the glance severe, 
 The learned frown, the caustic sneer. 
 When turning to my native land 
 ' From wandering on a foreign strand.' 
 Like him, whose lore, from passion 
 
 gained, 
 Taught that the world two parts con- 
 tained, 
 (Unknown the others, or forgot.) 
 ' Where is my love, and where is not — 
 Two eras, even so, combine 
 To form this luckless life of mine : 
 One is the age of high romance, 
 Of haughty heart and daring glance ;
 
 42 SCOT AXD SCOTLAND. 
 
 Of generous purpose, bold empnse, 
 And golden dreams, and cloudless 
 
 skies. 
 The other ! — but depict for me 
 The age of dread reality, 
 Oh, ye mute witnesses — the eye 
 Tearless and cold, — the xuiconscioiis 
 
 sigh, 
 The scornful lip, the sinking heart. 
 The sleepless night, the frequent start, 
 The dark'ning frown, the smile un- 
 couth, 
 The gray hairs on the brow of youth! 
 
 But, linked with all of good and bright, 
 These shores now bless the wanderer's 
 
 sight; 
 Who, turning from the darkened main, 
 Greets his lost paradise again. 
 Leave then to others, gifted mate, 
 The task of satire, envy, hate ; 
 And wave thy mystic wand, and 
 
 shower 
 Upon the page those tints of power, 
 To summon from their mouldering 
 
 grave 
 The fair, the faithful, and the brave.
 
 43 
 
 THE GANGES. 
 
 " On ♦he morning we floated again upon the broad 
 bosom of the Ganges, which was hourly widening as 
 we approached Calcutta. — As I now call to my recol- 
 lection the beauties of that magnificent river, I shall 
 indulge myself, and, I trust, gratify the reader, by 
 giving a poetical description of it from the pen of one 
 of its own native bards." — Oriental Annual. 
 
 Gold river ! gold river ! how gallantly 
 
 now 
 Our bark on thy bright breast is lifting 
 
 her prow ! 
 In the pride of her beauty how swiftly 
 
 she flies, 
 Like a white winged spirit through 
 
 topaz-paved skies. 
 
 Gold river! gold river! thy bosom is 
 calm, 
 
 And o'er thee the breezes are shedding 
 their bairn ; 
 
 And nature beholds her fair features 
 portrayed, 
 
 fn the glass of thy bosom serenely dis- 
 played.
 
 44 THE GANGES. 
 
 Gold river ! gold river ! the sun to thy 
 
 vi'aves 
 Is fleeting to rest in thy cool coral 
 
 caves ; 
 And thence, with his tiar of light, in 
 
 the morn, 
 He will rise, and the skies with his 
 
 glory adorn. 
 
 Gold river I gold river ! how bright is 
 
 the beam 
 That lightens and crimsons thy soft 
 
 flowing stream! 
 Whose waters beneath make a musical 
 
 clashing, 
 Whose waves, as they burst, in their 
 
 brightness are flashing. 
 
 Gold river ! gold river ! the moon will 
 soon grace 
 
 The hall of the stars with her light- 
 shedding face ; 
 
 The wandering planets will over thee 
 throng, 
 
 And seraphs will waken their music 
 and song. 
 
 Gold river! gold river! our brief 
 course is done,
 
 45 
 
 And, safe in the city, our liome we 
 
 have won : 
 And as to the bright sun, now dropped 
 
 from our view. 
 So, Ganga, we bid thee a cheerful 
 
 adieu. 
 
 Kasiprasad Ghosh. 
 
 MAISUNA. 
 
 MaUuna was the daughter of the tribe of Calab, 
 remarkable for the number of poets it had produced. 
 She was married, whilst very youn;, to the Khaliph 
 Mowiah. But this exalted station by no means suited 
 the disposition of Maisuna ; and amidst all the pomp 
 and splendour of Damascus, she languished for the 
 simple pleasures of her native deierU— Landscape 
 Annual. 
 
 The russet suit of camel's hair, 
 With spirits light and eye serene. 
 
 Is dearer to my bosom, far, 
 
 Than all the trappings of a queen. 
 
 The humble tent and murmuring 
 breeze, 
 That whistles through its fluttering 
 walls,
 
 46 MAISUNA. 
 
 My unaspiring fancy please, 
 Better than towers and splendid halls. 
 
 Th' attendant colts that, bounding, fly, 
 And frolic by the litter's side. 
 
 Are dearer, in Maisuna's eye. 
 Than gorgeous mules in all their 
 pride. 
 
 The watch-dog's voice, that bays 
 whene'er 
 A stranger seeks his master's cot, 
 Sounds sweeter in Maisuna's ear 
 Than yonder trumpet's long drawn 
 note. 
 
 The rustic youth, unspoilt by art, 
 Son of my kindred, poor, but free, 
 
 Will ever to Maisuna's heart 
 Be dearer, pampered king, than thee.
 
 47 
 
 RIO VERDE. 
 
 Associated with the scenery of the Rio VerJe, is 
 the exquisite ballad, so admirably adapted by the 
 Bishop of Dromore, applying to the famous Alonzo 
 d'Aguilarand his brave companions, in the vicinity 
 of these lonely banks, ever bright and blooming, 
 watered by the fresh, green-gemmed river. — iMnd" 
 scape Annual. 
 
 Gentlk river! gentle river! 
 
 Lo, thy streams are stained with gore; 
 Many a brave and noble captain 
 
 Floats along thy willowed shore. 
 
 All beside thy limpid waters, 
 All beside thy sands so bright, 
 
 Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors 
 Joined in fierce and mortal fight. 
 
 Lords, and dukes, and noble princes 
 On thy fatal banks were slain ; 
 
 Fatal banksH that gave to slaughter 
 All the pride and flower of Spain. 
 
 There the hero, brave Alonzo, 
 Full of wounds and glor>', died :
 
 48 RIO VERDE. 
 
 There the fearless Urdiales 
 Fell a victim by his side. 
 
 Lo, where yonder Don Saavedra 
 Through their squadrons slow re- 
 tires : 
 
 Proud Seville, his native city, 
 Proud Seville his worth admires. 
 
 Close behind a renegado 
 
 Loudly shouts, with taunting cry, 
 " Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ' 
 
 Dost thou from the battle fly ? 
 
 " Well I know thee, haughty Christian, 
 Long I lived beneath thy roof; 
 
 Oft I've in the lists of glory 
 Seen thee win the prize of proof. 
 
 " Well I know thy aged parents, 
 Well thy blooming bride I know ; 
 
 Seven years I was thy captive, 
 Seven years of pain and woe. 
 
 " May our Prophet grant my wishes, 
 Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine ,• 
 
 Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow 
 Which I drank when I was thine."
 
 RIO VERDE. 49 
 
 Like a lion turns the warrior, 
 Back he sends an angry glare ; 
 
 Whizzing came tlie Moorish javelin. 
 Vainly whizzing through the air. 
 
 Back the hero, full of fury. 
 
 Sends a deep and mortal wound ; 
 
 Instant sunk tlie renegado. 
 
 Mute and lifeless, on the ground. 
 
 With a thousand Moors surrounded. 
 Brave Saavedra stands at bay ; 
 
 Wearied out, but never daunted, 
 Cold, at length, the warrior lay. 
 
 Near him, fighting, great Alonzo 
 Stout resists the Paynim bands ; 
 
 From his slaughtered steed dismounted. 
 Firm intrenched behind him stands. 
 
 Furious press the hostile squadron, 
 Furious he repels their rage ; 
 
 Loss of blood at length enfeebles — 
 Who can war with thousands wage ? 
 
 Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, 
 Close beneath its foot retired, 
 
 Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, 
 And without a groan expired ! 
 4
 
 50 
 
 LAMENT OF THE POET 
 SAVAGE. 
 
 BY MRS. NORTON. 
 
 . '^vage vras so touched by the discovery of his 
 real mother, that it n-as his frequent practice to walk 
 in the dark evenings for several hours before her 
 door, in hopes of seeing her as she might come by 
 accident to the window, or cross her apartment with 
 a candle in her hand."— >/b/»rwon'« Livet of the Poets. 
 
 Have ye looked out across the wide 
 green sea, 
 With ail its mountain billows raging 
 round ; 
 And gazing on it, gathered bitterly 
 Unto yourselves the memory of tho 
 
 drowned ? 
 While others, gazing with you, in 
 that sound 
 Heard notliing but the ocean's cease- 
 less roar : — 
 Have ye in every wave beheld a 
 mound 
 O'er one who hath no grave ; whence 
 
 float to shore 
 Fond, fancied words from him whose 
 lips shall breathe no more ?
 
 poet's lament. si 
 
 So, oer my gaze, across the world's 
 wide sea, 
 Sad memory still her veil of dark 
 ness flings, 
 Dims with her clouds my soul's fuL 
 ecstasy, 
 And drieth up joy's gushing natural 
 
 springs. 
 So, though to others Time some 
 comfort hrings, 
 For me it hath no voice, — no soothing 
 balm ; 
 Still wearily my spirit droops its 
 wings. 
 Shrinks sickening from the crowd- 
 awarded palm, 
 And yearns for one wrecked hope 
 which hath destroyed its calm. 
 
 Oh, to forget it! but for one bright 
 
 day — 
 
 An hour — a happy moment I oh ! to 
 
 sleep 
 
 And dream not of it : to arise and say, 
 
 Lo, here is morning I and to feel no 
 
 deep 
 And sickening consciousness of cause 
 to weep. 
 Weigh down the waking soul : to smile 
 nor fear
 
 52 poet's lament. 
 
 The shades that round my couch 
 
 their vigil keep, 
 Will haunt e'en then, and murmur in 
 
 mine ear, 
 How canst thou smile, when we, the 
 
 doubly lost, are near. 
 
 Blow, ye wild breezes, o'er my native 
 hills : 
 Bend, ye wild flowers, beneath their 
 gladsome breath : 
 Gush on in beauty, founts whose mu- 
 sic fills 
 The voiceless air, — the taint of sin 
 
 and death, 
 Th' eternal curse that all must bow 
 benearth, 
 Rests not on you ! Forth on its endless 
 quest 
 It sweeps o'er sunny bank and 
 desolate heath, 
 To find a home within the human 
 
 breast, 
 A feared, and loathed, and scorned, 
 but never banished guest. 
 
 The beautiful things of earth! how I 
 have loved 
 To feel my spirit in its silent trance
 
 poet's lament. 53 
 
 When lone, but free, my eager foot- 
 steps roved : 
 With each new charm that met my 
 
 wandering glance : 
 The sky — the trees — the flowers — all 
 things which chance 
 Or my own seeiiing brought : but that 
 is past. 
 Never, oh I never more my heart 
 shall dance, 
 Sending its crimson torrent, warm and 
 
 fast, 
 To veins whose rushing tide flows 
 cold and slow at last. 
 
 Deserted, scorned, abjured, ere yet 1 
 knew 
 What such desertion was — my form, 
 my name, 
 My very being known but to a few. 
 And by those few remembered with 
 
 deep shnme, 
 As an eternal blot upwn the fame 
 Of those who, fearing not to sin, did yet 
 Fear the upbraiding eyes whose 
 scorn could tame 
 Proud hearts, that quailed at every 
 
 glance they met. 
 And having loved in sin, could nature's 
 love forget.
 
 64 poet's lament. 
 
 Thus rose life's faint and clouded light 
 to me; 
 And yet I had a heart, whose fer 
 vent love, 
 Whose power to suffer all things pa- 
 tiently — 
 Whose boundless hope that still for 
 
 mastery strove, 
 In value might have proved itself 
 above 
 The sacrifice affection made to fear. 
 But never may that heart its fond- 
 ness prove : 
 Mine is the bitter disregarded tear, 
 The blight which wastes the soul from 
 weary year to year. 
 
 Mother unknown, but not the less 
 adored, 
 How hath my soul gone forth in 
 search of thine ! 
 How hath my wild and eager spirit 
 poured, 
 In its lone watchings on the face di- 
 vine 
 Of heaven's blue midnight, prayers 
 that might incline 
 The powers above to hush this pas- 
 sionate storm
 
 poet's lament. 55 
 
 Of ruined hopes, and bid me cease 
 to pine 
 
 With feverish longing for thy fancied 
 form, 
 
 ♦fuelling within my heart its never- 
 dying worm. 
 
 What wild, far thoughts — what unre- 
 corded dreams 
 Df thy bright beauty— of thy gushing 
 tears — 
 When, in forsaking me, some dying 
 gleams 
 Of tenderness — some faint half-bu- 
 ried fears 
 Of what might be ray fate in after 
 years, 
 Awoke within thy soul, and bade thee 
 weep. 
 Shrouding the pained and heavy 
 eyes which gazed 
 On thy deserted infant's quiet sleep — 
 Across my lonely heart have learnt at 
 times to sweep I 
 
 How have I prayed to Him, the Holy 
 One, 
 Who still hath guarded thy forsaken 
 child.
 
 66 poet's lament. 
 
 To lead my steps where thine before 
 had gone, 
 And let me feed my soul with visions 
 
 wild, 
 Of how thine eyes had looked— thy 
 lips had smiled : 
 To leave me even renounced — abjured 
 by thee. 
 Beneath th' illumined lattice, where, 
 beguiled 
 By present thoughts and feelings, si- 
 lently 
 Thou dwellest now, without one wai- 
 dering thought of me. 
 
 That I might see thy shadow in that 
 room 
 Glide to and fro upon the marble 
 wall, 
 And from my station in night's circlinj 
 gloom. 
 Watch thee, and dream I heard thy 
 
 footsteps fall 
 Lightly in that (to me) forbidden 
 hall: 
 Conjure thy low sweet voice Hby fancy's 
 art. 
 Shed wild and burning tears unseen 
 by all
 
 poet's lament. 57 
 
 Whose chilling gaze forbid those drops 
 
 to start, 
 And feel a strange joy swell within 
 
 my rapturous heart. 
 
 Oh, mother! youth is vanished from 
 thy life. 
 The rose of beauty faded from thy 
 cheek ; 
 Little to thee this world of guilt and 
 strife, 
 Thy fame — men's scorn— are sha- 
 dows faint and weak : 
 And yet thou wilt not let me hear 
 thee speak 
 Words frozen back by woman's strug- 
 gling pride : 
 Thou wilt not let me in thy bosom 
 seek 
 The rest for which my heart hath 
 
 vainly sighed ; 
 This — this was all I asked — and this 
 thou hast denied ! 
 
 TiOne hath my life been : lone, and 
 very sad : 
 And wasted is the form thou wouldst 
 not know :
 
 58 THE WANDERING WIND. 
 
 And some have cursed, and some have 
 deemed me mad, 
 And sorrow hath drawn lines upon 
 
 my brow. 
 Ah! who would cheer me half so 
 well as thou ? 
 Who could so soothe my feverish 
 dreams of pain ? 
 Yet never for my sake thy tears shall 
 flow. 
 Unheard, unheeded, still must I com- 
 plain, 
 And to the hollow winds pour forth my 
 woe in vain. 
 
 THE WANDERING WIND. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 The wind, the wandering wind 
 Of golden summer eves ! 
 
 Whence is the thrilling magic 
 Of its tones among the leaves ?
 
 THE WANDERING WIND. 59 
 
 Oh, is it from the waters, 
 Or from the long, tall grass ? 
 
 Or is it from the hollow rocks, 
 Through which its breathings pass ? 
 
 Or is it from the voices 
 
 Of all m one combined, 
 That it wins the tone of mastery ? 
 
 The wind, the wandering wind ! 
 
 No, no ! the strange sweet accents 
 
 That with it come and go, 
 They are not from the osiers. 
 
 Or the fir-trees, whispering low. 
 
 They are not of the river. 
 
 Nor of the cavemed hill : 
 'Tis the human love within us 
 
 That gives them power to thrill. 
 
 They touch the links of memory 
 
 Around our spirits twined, 
 And we start and weep and tremble, 
 
 To the wind, the wandering wind !
 
 LINES, 
 
 BY CHARLES VERRALE, ESQ. 
 
 The setting sun ! the setting sun ! how 
 
 gorgeous in the west, 
 O'er canopied in golden clouds, it 
 
 proudly sinks to rest. 
 A blaze of fleeting glory gilds the sky, 
 
 the land, the sea : 
 How lovely, yet how full of sad and 
 
 solemn thought to me ! 
 
 It speaks of cheerful daylight past, of 
 
 darkness hastening on ; 
 It brings to mind the gladsome hours 
 
 that now, alas, are gone ! 
 It tells of youth departing fast, of health 
 
 how soon decayed ; 
 Of hopes that blossomed like the 
 
 flowers — that blossomed but to 
 
 fade! 
 
 It tells of mirth to sadness changed, of 
 
 pleasure turned to pain, 
 Of joy that glittered in our path, that 
 
 now we seek in vain.
 
 61 
 
 It tetis of beaming happiness in moody 
 
 murmuring lost, 
 Of fervent friendship waxing cold, of 
 
 fond affection crost ! 
 
 It tells of love, triumphant love, that 
 makes the heart his throne, 
 
 Then leaves his victim desolate, de- 
 serted, and alone. 
 
 It tells of those vve dearly prized, whose 
 less we now deplore ; 
 
 It tells that we ourselves shall set, and 
 weep our friends no more. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF THE HELITROPE. 
 
 E cos! la Belta 
 
 Bapidissimamente, oh Dio ! Sen va.— Zemwi*. 
 
 The rose upon her cheek was red ; 
 
 And on its faithless tint relying, 
 Though languor came and vigour fled. 
 
 We little dreamt that she was dying
 
 &S LINKS. 
 
 We bore her to the Tuscan shore, 
 Where Arno rolls — a stream of glad- 
 ness : 
 
 But Alps and Ocean traversed o'er 
 Still added sorrow to our sadness. 
 
 yet long, unblanched, upon her cheek 
 The rose of England loved to linger ; 
 
 But well the hectic's glowing streak 
 Told where decay had set her finger. 
 
 Devoted beauty ! days went by — 
 Sad days! that but matured the 
 canker, 
 
 Yet found her still with cloudless eye, 
 Like Hope, reposmg on her anchor ! 
 
 So when autumnal suns arise, 
 
 And nature's radiant form is lightest, 
 
 The leaf is clothed in richest guise. 
 And withers while the tint is 
 brightest.
 
 63 
 
 THE FALLEN LIME TREE. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Oh, joy of the peasant! oh, stately 
 
 lime I 
 Thou art fallen in thy golden honey 
 time ; 
 Thou whose wavy shadows, 
 
 Long and long ago, 
 Screened our grey forefathers 
 From the noontide's glow ; 
 Thou, beneath whose branches, 
 
 Touched with moonlight gleams, 
 Lay our early p^jels 
 
 Wrapt in Jairy dreams — 
 Oh, tree of our fathers I oh, hallowed 
 
 tree ! 
 A glory is gone from our home with 
 thee. 
 
 Where shall now the weary 
 Rest through summer eves? 
 
 Or the bee find honey, 
 As on ihv sweet leaves. 
 
 Where shall now the rmgdove 
 Build again her nest —
 
 64 FALLEN LIME TREE. 
 
 She, SO long the inmate 
 Of thy fragrant breast ? 
 But the sons of the peasant have lost 
 
 in thee 
 Far more than the ringdove, far more 
 than the bee. 
 
 These may yet find coverts, 
 
 Leafy and profound, 
 Full of dewy dimness, 
 
 Odour, and soft sound : 
 But the gentle memories 
 
 Clinging all to thee, 
 When shall they be gathered 
 Round another tree ? 
 Oh, pride of our fathers ! oh, hallowed 
 
 tree! 
 The crown of the hamlet is fallen in 
 thee
 
 65 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY R. F. HOUSEMAN. 
 
 Oh ! there is music in my heart to-night, 
 Sweeter than lapsing river-waters 
 
 when 
 They weave their circHng spells in 
 secret glen, 
 Darkling and peaceful : — Silently, the 
 
 light 
 Of a dead happiness goes gleaming 
 bright 
 Before my eyes — how beautifui ! and 
 
 now, 
 The dream-touched radiance of a 
 stainless brow. 
 Shines out amid the dimness, pale and 
 
 white ! 
 Most gentle vision ! — Thou art she with 
 whom 
 Erewhile I jilucked from youth's 
 full-foliafred tree 
 Hope's perishing buds, and love's deli 
 cious bloom I 
 
 5
 
 Wherefore thus brought, in wakeful 
 
 fantasy, 
 To mock the spirit's loneliness?— 
 Ah, me, 
 What spell hath triumphed o'er the 
 envious tomb ? 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 BY MRS. NORTON. 
 
 Night sinks upon the dim grey wave. 
 
 Night clouds the spires that mark 
 the town : 
 On living rest and grassy grave. 
 
 The shadowy night comes slowly 
 down. 
 And now the good and happy rest, 
 
 The wearied peasant calmly sleeps, 
 And closer to its mother's breast 
 
 The rosy child in slumber creeps. 
 
 But I ! — The sentry, musing lone — 
 The sailor, on the cold grey sea. 
 
 So sad a watch hath never known, 
 As that which must be kept by me.
 
 67 
 
 r cannot rest, thou solemn night ! 
 
 Thy very silence hath the power 
 To conjure sounds and visions bright. 
 
 Unseen, unheard, in daylight's hour. 
 
 Kind words, whose echo will not stay, 
 
 Memory of deep and bitter wrongs, 
 Laughter, whose sound hath t!ied away, 
 
 And snatches of forgotten songs; 
 These haunt my soul ; and as I gaze 
 
 Up to the calm and quiet moon, 
 I dream 'tis morning's breeze that plays, 
 
 Or sunset hour, or sultry noon. 
 
 I hear again the voice whose tone 
 
 Is more to me than music's sound ; 
 And youthful forms for ever gone 
 
 Come, in their beauty, crowding 
 round. 
 I start — the mocking dreams depart. 
 
 Thy loved words melt upon the air, 
 And whether swells or sinks my heart, 
 
 Thou dost not know — thou dost not 
 
 Perchance while thus I watch unseen, 
 Thy languid eyelids slowly close. 
 
 Without a thought of what hath been, 
 To haunt thee in thy deep repose.
 
 Oh, weary night — oh, endless night. 
 Blank pause between two feverish 
 days, 
 Roll back your shadows, give me light, 
 Give me the sunshine's fiercest 
 blaze I 
 
 Give me the glorious noon ! alas ! 
 
 What recks it by what light I pray, 
 Since hopeless hours must dawn and 
 pass. 
 
 And sleepless night succeed to day ? 
 Yet, cold and blue and quiet sky, 
 
 There is a night where all find rest 
 A long, long night. — With those who 
 die, 
 
 Sorrow hath ceased to be a guest !
 
 A SONG OF THE ROSE. 
 
 BY MRS. HE3IANS. 
 
 Hast thou no fears ? oh thou exulting 
 thinjr, 
 
 Thus looking forth on life I Is there no 
 spell 
 
 In the strong wind to tame thee ? Thou 
 hast yet 
 
 To learn harsh lessons from the change- 
 ful hours, 
 
 And bow thy stately head submissively 
 
 Unto a heavy touch : for here, bright 
 shape ! 
 
 Thy resting place is not. 
 
 Rose, what dost thou here ? 
 
 Bridal, royal Rose ! 
 How, midst grief and fear, 
 Canst thou thus disclose 
 That fervid hue of love which to thy 
 heart-leaf glows ? 
 
 Rose, too much arrayed 
 For triumphal hours,
 
 70 SONG OF THE ROSE. 
 
 Look'st thou through the shade 
 Of these mortal bowers, 
 Not to disturb my soul ? thou crowned 
 one of all flowers. 
 
 As an eagle soaring 
 
 Through a sunny sky, 
 As a clarion pouring 
 Strains of victory, 
 So dost thou kindle thoughts, for 
 earthly doom too high. 
 
 Thoughts of rapture, flushing 
 
 Youthful poet's cheek ; 
 Thoughts of glory, rushing 
 Forth in song to break. 
 But finding the spring-tide of rapid 
 song too weak. 
 
 yet, oh festal Rose, 
 
 I have seen thee lying 
 In thy bright repose. 
 
 Pillowed with the dying. 
 Thy crimson by the lip whence life's 
 quick blood was flying. 
 
 Summer, Life, and Love, 
 O'er that bed of pain,
 
 SONG OF THE ROSE. 71 
 
 Met in thee, yet wove 
 Too, too frail a chain 
 In its embracing links the lovely to 
 detain. 
 
 Smil'st thon, gorgeous flower 
 
 Oh! within the spells 
 Of ihy beauty's power, 
 Something dimly dwells 
 At variance with a world of sorrows 
 and farewells I 
 
 All the soul, forth flowing 
 With that rich perfume, 
 All the proud life, glowing 
 In that radiant bloom, 
 Have they no place but here, beneath 
 th' o'ershadowing tomb ? 
 
 Crown'st thou but the daughters 
 
 Of our tearful race ? 
 Heaven's own purest waters 
 Well might wear the trace 
 Of thy consummate form, melting to 
 softer grace ? 
 
 Will that clime enfold thee 
 With immortal air ?
 
 72 
 
 Shall we not behold thee, 
 Bright and deathless, there, 
 In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly 
 more fair ? 
 
 Yes, my fancy sees thee 
 In that light disclose, 
 And its dream thus frees thee 
 From the mist of woes, 
 Darkening thine earthly bowers, oh 
 bridal, royal Rose ! 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 BV WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE. 
 
 The spring's fair promise melted into 
 
 thee. 
 Fair summer, and thy gentle reign is 
 
 here : 
 Thy emc raid robes are on each heavy 
 
 tree, 
 In the blue sky thy voice is nch and 
 
 clear ; 
 And the free brooks haA'e songs to 
 
 bless thy reign — 
 They leaf) in music 'midst thy bright 
 
 domain.
 
 SUMMER. 73 
 
 The gales that wander from the un- 
 bounded west, 
 Are burthened with the breath of 
 countless fields : 
 
 They teem wilh incense from the green 
 earth's breast, 
 That up to heaven its grateful odour 
 yields, 
 
 Bearing sweet hymns of praise from 
 many a bird, 
 
 By nature's aspect into rapture stirred. 
 
 In such a scene, the sun illumined 
 
 heart 
 Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow 
 
 cell, 
 When through its bars the morning 
 
 glories dart. 
 And forest anthems in his hearing 
 
 swell : 
 And like the heaving of the voiceless 
 
 sea. 
 His panting bosom labours to be free. 
 
 Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire 
 sky, 
 Oh, Summer ! in my inmost soul 
 arise
 
 74 SUMMER. 
 
 Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods 
 reply, 
 And the bland air with its soft melo- 
 dies, 
 
 Till, basking in some vision's glorious 
 ray, 
 
 I long for eagle's plumes to flee away. 
 
 I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside. 
 And the impure, unholy thoughts 
 that cling 
 
 To the sad bosom torn with care and 
 pride : — 
 I would soar upward on unfettered 
 wing, 
 
 Far through the chambers of the peace- 
 ful skies, 
 
 Where the high fount of sumrawj 
 brightness lies.
 
 75 
 
 THE SUN AND MOON 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF EBERT. 
 
 Moon. — On, Sun I ere thou closest thjr 
 glorious career, 
 (And brilliant thy wide course has 
 been,) 
 Delay and recount to my listening ear, 
 The things which on earth thou hast 
 seen. 
 
 Sun. — 1 saw, as my daily course I ran, 
 The various labours of busy man ; 
 Each project vain, each emprise high, 
 Lay open to my searching eye. 
 I entered the peasant's lowly door, 
 J shone on the student's narrow floor, 
 I gleamed on the sculptor's statue pale, 
 And on the proud warrior's coat of 
 
 'nail ,• 
 I shed my rays in the house of prayer, 
 On the kneeling crowds assembled 
 
 there ; 
 In gilded hall and tapestried room, 
 And cheered the dark cold dungeon's 
 
 gloom :
 
 76 THE SUN AND MOON. 
 
 With joy in happy eyes I shone, 
 
 And peace bestowed where joy was 
 
 gone. 
 In tears upon the face of care, 
 In pearls that decked the maiden's 
 
 hair, — 
 I shone on all things, sad and fair. 
 But few the eyes that turned to 
 
 heaven 
 In gratitude for blessings given ; 
 As on the horizon's verge I hung, 
 No hymn or parting lay was sung. 
 
 Moon. — Thou risest in glory — my jour- 
 ney is o'er ; 
 Alternate our gifts we bestow ; 
 Yet seldom behold we the hearts that 
 adore 
 The source whence all benefits flow. 
 
 Sun. — Thou comest, oh moon, with thy 
 soft-beaming light, 
 To shine where ray presence has 
 been; 
 Then tell me, I pray thee, thou fair 
 queen of night, 
 What thou in thy travels hast een.
 
 THE SUN AND MOON. 77 
 
 Moon. — I shone on many a pillowed 
 
 head, 
 On greensward rude, and downy bed; 
 I watched the infant's tranquil sleep. 
 Composed to rest so calm and deep; 
 The murderer, in his fearful dream, 
 Woke, starting at my transient gleam. 
 I saw, across the midnight skies, 
 Red flames from burning cities rise ; 
 And where, 'mid foaming billows' roar, 
 The vessel sank to rise no more — 
 I heard the drowning sailor's cry 
 For succour, when no help was nigh. 
 On mountain path, and forest glade, 
 The lurkmg robber's ambuscade, 
 I shone : and on the peaceful grave 
 Where sleep the noble and the brave. 
 To each and all my light I gave : 
 And as my feei)ler silver ray 
 Vanished before the dawn of day 
 In vain 1 lent my willing ear, 
 One word of gratitude to hear. 
 
 Sun. — We still travel onward our task 
 to fulfil. 
 Till time shall be reckoned no more ; 
 When all shall acknowledge the sove- 
 reign will, 
 That made them to love and adore.
 
 78 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE ROTHSAY 
 CASTLE STEAMBOAT.* 183L 
 
 BY LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 
 
 Unknown ! unclaimed ! tossed, as with 
 
 other weeds, 
 To silent earth, and what heart feels 
 
 or heeds ? 
 And yet, perchance, these torn chill 
 
 ashes were 
 To kindred bosoms exquisitely dear. 
 Perchance ! Ah, surely never yet on 
 
 earth, 
 Lived one uncherished from his very 
 
 birth : 
 No, this pale dust hath once most pre- 
 cious been. 
 In eyes that viewed not life's last 
 
 frenzying scene ; 
 When the fierce rushing night brought 
 
 dread and death, 
 Stifling the latest prayer and latest 
 
 breath. 
 
 • Two beautiful i'laltn were lost in the Rothwy 
 Castle.
 
 LOSS OF THE ROTHSAY CASTLE. 79 
 
 Now the cold sea to the cold earth re- 
 turns 
 
 These relics wan, o'er which no fond 
 one mourns ! 
 
 The stranger on their stranger tene- 
 ments 
 
 Casts a sad gaze, and momently la- 
 ments ; 
 
 Then, with a sorrowing mien, he turns 
 away. 
 
 With hurrying steps, to leave th' un- 
 shrouded clay. 
 
 Yet, stranger, turn again. Hast thou 
 not known 
 
 What 'tis to love a something all thine 
 own ? 
 
 Give to these hapless ones a few meek 
 tears, 
 
 Lost in the beauty of their golden years. 
 
 Look on these pale forms, these broken 
 flowers, 
 
 Once bright as rosebuds in spring's 
 vernal hours : 
 
 Adopt these desolate orphans of the 
 grave. 
 
 Bear them afar from the dull moaning 
 wave : 
 
 Gather with kind and reverential hands
 
 80 LOSS OF THE ROTHSAV CASTLE. 
 
 Their sacred ashes from the tide-worn 
 
 sands ; 
 Consign them to some calm unstormy 
 
 tomb, 
 Where broods a tender and a tearful 
 
 gloom ; 
 VlTiere breathes no tempest gust to 
 
 shake their rest — 
 But south winds sweep the green 
 
 sward's flow'ring breast. 
 Oh ! how unlike their death-bed — yon 
 
 mad sea — 
 Where all was awe and conquering 
 
 agony I 
 Yet if higli Love and heavenly Faith 
 
 were there, 
 Thou wert expelled, wert exiled 
 
 thence, Despair. 
 If that same Love that tamed the 
 
 storms of old. 
 The Love almighty, breathed where 
 
 thunders rolled, 
 Oh, how the tempests in their hearts 
 
 were stilled I 
 The heaven and earth to those wild 
 
 terrors thrilled : 
 Softer than warblings of the mother 
 
 dove
 
 I TOO IN ARCADIA. 81 
 
 Pierced through their souls the whis- 
 perings of" tiiat love. 
 
 Oh ! let us hope, ye fair and nameless 
 dead, 
 
 Deep blessings o'er your fearful doom 
 were shed ; 
 
 And that 'twas given to ye, when 
 doomed to part. 
 
 To die soul linked in soul, and heart 
 to heart, 
 
 With your beloved ones ! blessed even 
 thus to share 
 
 That hour's immeasurable hope or fear. 
 
 AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS 
 
 A celebrated picture by Poussin, represents a band 
 of youths and miidens suddenly coming upon a tomb 
 which bears the iosci iption " Et in Arcadia Ego." 
 
 They have wandered in their glee 
 
 With the butterfly and bee. 
 
 They have climbed o'er heathery 
 
 swells. 
 They have wound through forest 
 
 dells. 
 
 6
 
 Oa I TOO IN ARCADIA. 
 
 Mountain moss hath felt their tread, 
 Woodland streams their way have 
 
 led! 
 Flowers in deepest Oread nooks, 
 Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, 
 Unto them have yielded up 
 Fragrant bell and starry cup ; 
 Chaplets are on every brow ; 
 What hath stayed the wanderers 
 
 now ? 
 Lo a grey and rustic tomb 
 Bowered amidst the rich wood 
 gloom. 
 Whence those words their stricken bo- 
 soms melt — 
 "I too, shepherds I in Arcadia dwelt!" 
 
 There is many a summer sound 
 
 That pale sepulchre around ; 
 
 Through the shade young birds are 
 glancing. 
 
 Insect wings in sun-streaks danc- 
 ing, 
 
 Glimpses of blue festal skies 
 
 Pouring in when soft winds rise : 
 
 Violets o'er the turf below 
 
 Shedding out their warmest glowi 
 
 Yet a spirit not its own 
 
 O'er the greenwood now is thrown !
 
 I TOO IN ARCADIA. 83 
 
 Something of an under note 
 Through its music seems to float, 
 Something of a stillness grey 
 Creeps across the laughing day, 
 Something from those old words felt — 
 "I too, shepherds, in Arcadia dwelt!" 
 
 Was some gentle kindred maid 
 In that grave with dirges laid ? 
 Some fair creature with the tone 
 Of whose voice a joy is gone, 
 Leaving melody and mirth 
 Poorer on this altered earth ? 
 Is it thus ? that so they stand, 
 Dropping flowers from every hand ; 
 Flowers^ and lyres, and gather'd 
 
 store 
 Of red wild-fruit, prized no more? 
 No, from that bright band of morn 
 Not one link hath yet been torn; 
 'Tis the shadow of the tomb, 
 Falling thus o'er summer's bloom, 
 O'er the fliish of love and life, 
 Passing with a sudden strife : 
 'Tis the low, prophetic breath 
 Rising from the house of death, 
 
 Which thus whispers, those glad hearts 
 to melt — 
 
 " I too, shepherds, in Arcadia dwell !"
 
 84 
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " WOMAN'S LOVE.' 
 
 How beautiful is infancy ! 
 
 The bud upon the tree. 
 With all its young leaves folded yet, 
 
 Is not so sweet to me. 
 How day-like a young mother looka 
 
 Upon the lovely thing, 
 And from its couch, at her approach, 
 
 How rosy sleep takes wing. 
 
 O this makes morning's toilette-hour 
 
 So beautiful to see ; 
 Her rising wakens all young things, 
 
 The babe, the bird, the bee. 
 The infant sun-beams, from the clouds 
 
 That curtain their blue bed, 
 Peep forth, like little ones that fear 
 
 Lest darkness be not fled ; 
 Till morn assures them, and they wave 
 
 Their saffron wings, and take 
 The rapture of their rosy flight, 
 
 O'er lea, and lawn, and lake ; 
 Gladd'ning the glowing butterflies 
 
 That float about like flowers.
 
 b5 
 
 And the bee abroad on busy wing 
 To seek the budding bovvers ; 
 
 And breezes upsprung from the sea, 
 And hurrying o'er the hills, 
 
 Brushing the bright dews as they pass, 
 And rippling all the rills. 
 
 But, infancy I sweet infancy ! 
 
 Thou'rt sweeter than all these, 
 Than bird, or bee, or butterfly, 
 
 Or bower, or beam, or breeze, 
 Far sweeter is thy blooming cheek, 
 
 Thine eyes all bland and bright. 
 Thy mouth, the rosy cell of sound, 
 
 With thy budding teeth all white ; 
 Thy joyous sports, thy jocund glee, 
 
 Thy gushes of glad mirth. 
 The clapping of thy rosy hands. 
 
 Thou merriest thing on earth! 
 Thou gift of Heaven — thou promise 
 plant — 
 
 On earth, in air, or sea, 
 There's nothing half so priceless, or 
 
 So beautiful as thee !
 
 86 
 
 PARIS 
 
 ON THE MORNING OF LOUIS THE SIX- 
 TEENTH'S EXECUTION. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY MRS. HEMANS, FROM THB 
 
 BASVIGLIANA, THE MOST CELEBRATED 
 
 POLITICAL POEM OF MONTI. 
 
 Hugh Basville, envoy of the French Revolutionary 
 Government, was put to death at Rome by the Pope 
 for an attempt to excite sedition. The subject of 
 Monti's poem is the condemnation of Basville's spirit 
 to traverse France, under the guidance of a chastis- 
 ing angel, and contemplate the misfortunes and re- 
 verses to which he has contributed. He is supposed 
 to enter Paris, with bis immortal guide, at the mo- 
 ment preceding the execution of Louis XVI. 
 
 The air was heavy, and the brooding 
 skies 
 
 Looked fraught with omens, as to har- 
 monize 
 
 With his pale aspect. Through the 
 forest round 
 
 Not a leaf whisper'd, and the only 
 sound
 
 PARIS. 87 
 
 That broke the stillness, was a stream- 
 let's moan, 
 
 Murmuring amidst the rocks with plain- 
 tive tone. 
 
 As if a storm within the woodland 
 bowers 
 
 Were gathering. On they moved, and 
 lol the towers 
 
 Of a far city nearer now they drew, 
 
 And all reveal'd expanding on their 
 view, 
 
 The Babylon, the scene of crimes and 
 woes — 
 
 Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose. 
 * * * * 
 
 In the dark mantle of a cloud arrayed, 
 
 Viewless and hush'd, the angel and the 
 shade 
 
 Enter'd that evil city. Onward passed 
 
 The heavenly being first, with brow 
 o'ercast. 
 
 And troubled mien ; while in his glo- 
 rious eyes 
 
 Tears had obscured the splendour of 
 the skies. 
 
 Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit 
 saw 
 
 That altered aspect, and in breathless 
 awe
 
 Marked the strange silence round. 
 
 The deep-toned swell 
 •Of hfe's full tide was hush'd ; the sa- 
 cred bell, 
 The clamorous anvil, mute : all sounds 
 
 were fled 
 Of labour or of mirth, and in their 
 
 stead 
 Terror and stillness! boding signs of 
 
 woe — 
 Inquiring glances, rumours whisper'd 
 
 low ; 
 Questions half uttered, jealous looks 
 
 that keep 
 A fearful watch around; and sadness 
 
 deep. 
 That weighs upon the heart; and 
 
 voices heard 
 At intervals, in many a broken word ; 
 Voices of mothers, trembhng as they 
 
 press'd 
 Th' unconscious infant closer to their 
 
 breast. 
 Voices of wives, with fond imploring 
 
 cries, 
 And the wild eloquence of tears and 
 
 sighs, 
 On their own thresholds striving to de- 
 tain
 
 Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak 
 
 and vain 
 Affection's gentle bonds ; in that dread 
 
 hour 
 Of fate and fury, love hath lost his 
 
 power, 
 For evil spirits are abroad — the air 
 Breathes of such influence: Druid phan- 
 toms there. 
 Fired by that thirst for victims which 
 
 of old 
 Raged in their bosoms fierce and un- 
 
 controU'd, 
 Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
 The deepest crime that e'er hath 
 
 dimm'd the day. 
 Blood, human blood, hath stained their 
 
 vests and hair, 
 On the winds tossing with a sanguine 
 
 glare, 
 Scattering red showers around them. 
 
 Flaming brands. 
 And serpent scourges, in their ruthless 
 
 hands 
 Are wildly shaken ; others lift on high 
 The steel, the envenom'd bowl, and 
 
 hurrying by 
 With touch of fire contagious fury dart 
 Through mortal veins, fast kindling to 
 
 the heart.
 
 90 
 
 Then comes the rush of crowds ! re- 
 strained no more, 
 Fast from each house the frenzied in 
 
 mates pour ; 
 From every heart affrighted mercy 
 
 flies, 
 While her soft voice amidst the tumult 
 
 dies. 
 Then the earth trembles, as from street 
 
 to street 
 The tramp of steeds, the press of has- 
 tening feet, 
 The roll of wheels, all mingled in the 
 
 breeze. 
 Come deepening onward, as the swell 
 
 of seas 
 Heard at dead midnight ; or the sullen 
 
 moan 
 Of gathering storms, or hollow boding 
 
 tone 
 Of far off thunder. Then what anguish 
 
 press'd, 
 O wretched Basville ! on thy guilty 
 
 breast. 
 What pangs were thine, then fated to 
 
 behold 
 Death's awful banner to the wind un- 
 
 roll'd ! 
 To see the axe, the scaffold raised on 
 
 high.
 
 PARIS. 91 
 
 The dark impatience of the murderer's 
 eye, 
 
 Eager for crime ! And he, the great, 
 the good, 
 
 Thy martyr-lung, by men athirst for 
 blood, 
 
 Dragg'd to a felon's death ! yet still his 
 mien 
 
 'Midst that wild throng, is loftily se- 
 rene, 
 
 And his step falters not I oh hearts un- 
 moved ! 
 
 Where have you borne your monarch ? 
 he who loved — 
 
 Loved you so vvelll Behold the sun 
 grows pale. 
 
 Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil. 
 
 The misty air is silent as in dread. 
 
 And the dim sky with shadowy gloom 
 o'erspread. 
 
 While saints and martyrs, spirits of the 
 blest, 
 
 Look dowTi all weeping from their 
 bowers of rest. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 In that dread moment, to the fatal 
 
 pile 
 The kingly victim came, and raised the 
 
 while
 
 92 PARIS. 
 
 His patient glance, with such an aspect 
 high, 
 
 So firm, so calm in holy majesty, 
 
 That e'en the assassin's heart one in- 
 stant shook 
 
 Before the might of that ascendant 
 look, 
 
 And a strange thrill of pity, half re- 
 new'd, 
 
 Stirr'd through the bosom of the multi- 
 tude. 
 
 Like him who, breathing mercy to the 
 
 last, 
 Pray'd till the bitterness of death was 
 
 past, 
 Ev'n for his murderers prayed, in that 
 
 dark hour 
 When his soul yielded to affliction's 
 
 power. 
 And the wind bore his dying cry 
 
 abroad — 
 '• Hast thou forsaken me, my God, my 
 
 God ?" 
 E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer 
 
 arose. 
 Thus calling down forgiveness on his 
 
 foes ;
 
 93 
 
 "To thee ray spirit I commend," he 
 
 cried, — 
 " And my lost people ; Father, be their 
 
 guide I" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But the sharp steel descends : the blow 
 
 is given, 
 And answered by a thunder-peal from 
 
 heaven ; 
 Earth, stained with blood, convulsive 
 
 terror owns. 
 And her kings tremble on their distant 
 
 thrones. 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CAMPBELL, 
 YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF COL. HAR- 
 VEY, EDINBURG CASTLE. 
 
 Our bright hopes have vanished — her 
 
 young heart is broken ! 
 Her pale lips are closed, and their last 
 
 words are spoken 
 Dissolved all the fond ties so lately that 
 
 bound her, 
 And blighted each joy that seemed 
 
 ripening around her!
 
 94 
 
 Could the tears of thy kindred — the 
 
 husband who shared 
 All thy heart, and thy hopes, and thy 
 
 life, but have spared 
 Thy being's brief loveliness ! how had 
 
 they striven 
 To retard but one hour the stern man- 
 date of heaven! 
 In vain ! for death's signet sat pale on 
 
 thy brow. 
 And their hopes, one by one, fell like 
 
 leaves from the bough! 
 Thou hast passed from our eyes, like a 
 
 bright summer cloud 
 From thy brief happy day — from thy 
 
 home to thy shroud ! 
 When thy days were the sweetest, thy 
 
 young hopes the highest. 
 And the goal of earth happiness glim- 
 
 mer'd the nighest. 
 With the rose on thy cheek, and thy 
 
 forehead so fair, 
 Unwasted by sorrow, unfurrowed by 
 
 care ! 
 In an hour that announced thee a 
 
 mother I then drew 
 The dark veil of death 'twixt thy child 
 
 and thy view!
 
 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 95 
 
 Thou art gone ! But the tempest that 
 
 levell'd the tree, 
 One tendril has spared to remind us of 
 
 thee. 
 Remind us ! what pain as we dwell on 
 
 the word ! 
 Again thy loved accents in her's will 
 
 be heard ; 
 Affection will cling to the treasure be- 
 
 queatlied, 
 And tell her, long hence, where thy 
 
 last words were breathed ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 BY DR. R. MADDEN. 
 
 The sea was smooth, and bright the 
 .shore, 
 
 A cloudless sky above, 
 But frail the little bark that bore 
 
 A mother's freight of love ! 
 
 It danced upon the morning tide, 
 And mocked a mother's fears ; 
 
 An object of a moment's pride — 
 A subject soon of tears.
 
 96 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 The sun is gone, the sky is dark, 
 
 The sea is ruffled o'er, 
 Ah, me! where is that little bark 
 
 That left the joyous shore ? 
 
 It meets no more the longing eye, 
 
 It may no more return ; 
 The night is past, no bark is nigh; 
 
 The mourner's left (brlorn. 
 
 yet weep not, though it meet no more 
 
 Thy gaze on yonder sea, 
 Another and a brighter shore — 
 
 Is smiling on its lee. 
 
 Another, and a brighter port 
 
 Is now its peaceful home 
 Where wail or woe, or earthly sort 
 
 Of care can never come !
 
 97 
 
 THE TEMPTATION IN THE 
 WILDERNESS. 
 
 BY BERNARD BARTON, ESQ. 
 
 Not in the noise, the tumult, and the 
 crowd, 
 Did the Arch-tempter spread his 
 snares for Thee : 
 
 There he might hope to catch the 
 vain, the proud, 
 The selfish ; — all who bend the will- 
 ing knee 
 
 To pageants which the world hatTx 
 deified. 
 
 Seeking from such their pleasure and. 
 tlieir pride. 
 
 P*it Thou, who, even in thy tarriance 
 here. 
 Didst bear about Thee tokens of the 
 high 
 And holy influence of thy primal 
 sphere. 
 Stamping thy manhood with Di- 
 vinity ! 
 
 7
 
 98 THE TEMPTATION. 
 
 VVho, IN the world, werl still not of 
 
 it— Thou, 
 He could not hope, unto its spells 
 
 would 'st bow. 
 
 Therefore he sought and found Thee — 
 in the gloom 
 Of the vast wilderness, perchance 
 employed 
 
 In meditating on man's hapless doom ; 
 Who but for sin had still in peace 
 enjoyed 
 
 The bliss of Eden, ere the serpent's 
 thrall 
 
 Had wrought our earliest parents' fa- 
 tal fall. 
 
 But vain the tempter's power and art! 
 
 Though spent 
 With long, lone fasting in that desert 
 
 drear. 
 Thou, in thy Deity omnipotent. 
 
 As man — from human crimes and 
 
 follies clear, 
 Wert still temptation-proof, from frailty 
 
 free: 
 He left— and Angels ministered to 
 
 Thee!
 
 GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. 99 
 
 Oh! then, as Eden, when by sin de- 
 filed. 
 Was Paradise no more, thy pre- 
 sence made 
 
 A brief Elysium in the desert wild. 
 And more than sunshine pierced its 
 matted shade ; 
 
 Its darkest depths by heavenly hosts 
 were trod, 
 
 And the rude wilderness confessed its 
 God! 
 
 THE GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. 
 
 BY MISS EMMA ROBERTS. 
 
 When the coming shadows rest, 
 
 (A welcome sight) on India's plains, 
 And o'er the brightly glowing west 
 
 The sun has flung his amber stains — 
 When the tired Golier* drops his oar, 
 And nears his light bark to the shore — 
 When the rich odorous scent that dwells 
 Amid the banbooi's golden cells, 
 
 • One of the piiDcipal boatmen, who stands at the 
 prow with an oar, sounding, as the vessel passes 
 llirough shallow water.
 
 100 GRAVES OF HINDOSTA.N. 
 
 Moved by the gale's soft witcheries, 
 Comes stealing out in balmy sighs — 
 When, glancing in the sloping beam, 
 Pearl-like, or bright with emerald 
 
 gleam, 
 The rice birds and the paroquets 
 
 Across the golden ether sweep; 
 And lamps from distant minarets, 
 
 And groves begemmed vvrith fire- 
 flies, peep — 
 When *he pagoda's silvery bell 
 The near approach of eve doth tell — 
 How gladly then the eye reposes. 
 
 Dazzled with noontide's fiery blaze, 
 Upon the scene which she discloses, 
 
 Beneath her mild, attempered rays ! 
 How gladly then the prisoned feet 
 Seek out some green and cool retreat! 
 Long in the cabined budgerow pent. 
 
 We track the river's winding shore ; 
 Or, springing from the sultry tent, 
 
 The broad expanse around explore 
 And both are beautiful — the tanks 
 Are brimming o'er their flower- 
 wreathed banks. 
 Reflecting, in their glassy lakes, 
 The tangled jungle's leafy brakes. 
 The tail mosque's pinnacled minars. 
 And heaven's bright host of countless 
 stars ;
 
 GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. lOl 
 
 While 'neath the river's towering ciiffi, 
 Whose sunlit points in splendour 
 glow, 
 A fairy fleet of graceful skiffs 
 Dance with the dancing current's 
 flow. 
 
 Whene'er through copse and flowery 
 
 glade, 
 In the cool evening air I've strayed, 
 However bright and richly fraught 
 
 The varied scene before me spread. 
 My wandering footsteps still have 
 
 sought 
 The quiet mansions of the dead — 
 The scattered graves where Moslems 
 
 lie, 
 Enshrnied within their massy tombs. 
 Beneath some tall tree's canopy, 
 Which mantles o'er their sacred 
 
 homes : 
 And not those crowdec chamels, 
 
 where 
 A sickening taint infects the air, 
 And o'er each dark and loathsome 
 
 grave 
 Earth's rankest weeds delight to wave : 
 Where from the boughs of mournful 
 
 trees,
 
 102 GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. 
 
 The vulture snuffs the plague-fraught 
 
 breeze ; 
 And where the prowling jackalls lurk, 
 
 'Mid crumbling bones and ruins grey, 
 And hasten to their filthy w'ork, 
 
 With the first fall of parting day. 
 How many saddening feelings rise 
 Within these gloomy cemet'ries ! 
 How many thoughts oppress the heart, 
 
 Where, early doomed, an exiled band, 
 From their paternal homes apart, 
 
 Lie buried in a heathen land,* 
 Unwept, unhonoured, and unknown 
 
 Perchance without a stone to trace 
 The mound so desolate and lone, 
 
 Above their gloomy dwelling-place. 
 Far different is the Moslem's lot 
 
 Beneath his own bright dazzling 
 skies ; 
 In some romantic, chosen spot, 
 
 Circled with cheerful scenes, he lies: 
 And there the lamp is duly fed. 
 
 When evening's dusky shades ap- 
 pear, 
 
 • The Moosaulmaun population of India bean a 
 very small proportion to that of the Hindoo ; and 
 Mohammed's creed is so corrupted, that it it little 
 removed from idolatry.
 
 GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. 103 
 
 And wreaths of bright-leaved flow'rete 
 shed 
 
 Upon the consecrated bier. 
 From the proud Mausoleum's walls, 
 
 Where mighty Acbar's cold remains 
 Repose within ihe marble halls, 
 
 The palace-tomb of Agra's plains — 
 To the small Musjeed's* lowly porch. 
 Flames out at eve the signal torch ; 
 And, where a true believer sleeps, 
 
 Some brother's hand, with pious care, 
 The cumbered earth around him 
 sweeps, 
 
 And plucks the dark grass gathering 
 there. 
 
 Oh ! since beyond the western wave 
 1 may not hope to find a grave, 
 Nor yield my parting spirit up, 
 Where springs the glittering butter- 
 cup. 
 And daisies lend their silvery shrouds, 
 And violets mourn in purple clouds : 
 
 • A temple — a form id which Moosaulmaun 
 tombs are often built ; they are generally to be found 
 in picturesque situations, sometimes in the centre of 
 a garden, and few are without the lamp, often fed 
 by the hands of strangers.
 
 04 GRAVKS OF HINDOSTAN. 
 
 Where the green moss is overspread, 
 In spring-time, with the pM-imrose 
 pale. 
 And the red wall-flower lifts its head, 
 And sheds its sweets on autumn's 
 gale ;— 
 Where 'mid bleak winter's chilling 
 
 gloom, 
 The scarlet-berried hollies bloom ; 
 Where, at the flush of early mom, 
 
 The lark his thrilling matin sings, 
 And evening's vesper hymns are borne, 
 
 In soft and fitful murmurings, 
 From sheep-bells tinkling far and faint, 
 Frum breezes whispering music 
 round. 
 From the wood-pigeon's ceaseless 
 plaint. 
 And bubbling brooklets' lulling 
 sound : — 
 Give me a sepulchre, remote 
 
 From human haunts, some forest cell, 
 Where giant flowers, hke banners, float 
 
 Above the leafy citadel ; — 
 Where the small moose-deer makes his 
 lair. 
 And gambols blythely all day long, 
 And the bright wanderers of the air 
 Gladden the woods with bursts of 
 song;
 
 GRAVES OF HINDOSTAN. 105 
 
 Where on those dark and starless 
 nights, 
 When gloora profound the sky per- 
 vades, 
 Its gem-like lamp the fire-fly lights. 
 
 And glitters 'mid the dusky shades ; 
 Where, when the notes from every 
 
 spray, 
 With the sun's rays have died away. 
 The sighing night-wind's pensive wail 
 Will breathe a melancholy tale, 
 Telling, should wandering steps in- 
 trude 
 Upon the tangled solitude, 
 The story of the exile, lost 
 To all that youth's bright augurs 
 gave, 
 And finding on a foreign coast, 
 One sole, sad boon, a lonely grave. 
 Cawnpore.
 
 106 
 
 THE COTTAGE EMIGRANTS' 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 In a lone mossy dingle, 
 
 By green trees o'erhung, 
 Their wild song of sorrow 
 
 Tiiree Highland maids sung, — 
 Who were doomed, with their people 
 
 In exile lo roam 
 O'er the stormy Atlantic, 
 
 To seek for a home. 
 
 For the hearths of their fathers, 
 
 By Want's chilling hand 
 Had been sternly extinguished 
 
 That morn in the land ,• 
 And they came, for the last time, 
 
 All weeping, to bring 
 The cool gushing waters 
 
 From that pleasant spring. 
 
 It was piteous to see 
 
 How their sweet eyes grew dim. 
 With their fast flowing tears, 
 
 As they hung o'er its brim.
 
 emigrant's farewell. 107 
 
 And looked their farewell 
 
 To that beautiful spot, 
 Endeareu by those ties 
 
 Which could ne'er be forgot 
 
 And oft from their vessels, 
 
 Replenished in vain, 
 They restored the pure stream 
 
 To the fountain again ; 
 As fondly they lingered, 
 
 And, loth to depart. 
 They sobbed forth their grief 
 
 In the anguish of heart. 
 
 " Dear fountain of our native glen! 
 
 Far hence we're doomed to go ; 
 And soon for other urns than ours 
 
 Thy crystal streams will flow. 
 
 " Thy snowy lilies still will bloom 
 
 On this delightful spot, 
 Sweet fountain of our native glen! 
 
 Though we behold them not. 
 
 " And thou wilt, from thy sparkling cell, 
 
 Still softly murmur on, 
 When those who loved thy voice to 
 hear, 
 
 To other lands are gone.
 
 108 KPICKDIUM. 
 
 " Dear fountain of our native glen ! 
 
 Beloved by us in vain, 
 That pleasant sound shall never glad 
 
 Our pensive ears again. 
 
 " Dear fountain of our native glen! 
 
 Which we no more must view, 
 With breaking hearts thy children poui 
 
 Their long— their last adieu." 
 
 EPICEDIUM. 
 
 BY HENRY ALFORD. 
 
 The turf is green upon thee, 
 
 Thou'rt wedded to thy rest, 
 With the cold damp earth about thee, 
 
 And thine arms across thy breast : 
 The light hath waned around thee, 
 
 In which thy spirit breathed ; 
 And thou hast faded from the flowers 
 
 With which thy brow was wreathed. 
 
 Oh ! thou wert mild and beautiful, 
 A sunbeam in life's showers ; 
 
 Thou wert too mild and beautiful 
 For this frail earth of ours :
 
 DERWENT WATER. 109 
 
 So they have taken thee away — 
 
 Fair spirits like thine own, 
 And thou art gone to be with them 
 
 In sight of God's high throne. 
 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 TO DERWENT WATER. 
 
 T BLESS thee, but thou canst not know 
 
 Why, lovely lake, I bless thee so ! 
 
 I kiss the tiny ripple thrown 
 
 By pulses on thy margin stone ; — 
 
 I woo thee with a lover's care, 
 
 And words more soft than summer air; 
 
 I've languished oft for thee of yore 
 
 On ocean wave and tropic shore ! — 
 
 Not for thou tum'st thine azure eye. 
 
 Like smiling infant, on the sky; — 
 
 Not for that on thy virgin face 
 
 Is mirrored majesty with grace ; 
 
 Oh ! not for this, — though youth be 
 
 mine, — 
 Swells my fixed soul within her shrine : 
 In sooth, dear thought of, dreamt of 
 
 lake! 
 I love thee for my sweet maid's sake ! 
 H. N. C.
 
 110 
 
 WINDERMERE. 
 
 Thy calm, romantic beauty who can 
 see, 
 The woods of green that bend to kiss 
 
 thy tide. 
 Thy bowery isles that smile in ver- 
 dure's pride, 
 Nor grow enamoured, lovely lake, of 
 
 thee? 
 At dewy dawn to roam the mountains 
 o'er, 
 That gird thee round like gloomy 
 
 sentinels. 
 While far beneath thy purple bosom 
 swells; 
 At sultry noon to seek thy eavemed 
 
 shore. 
 There woo the freshness of the per- 
 fumed gale, 
 List the wild cascade murmuring 
 
 down thy rocks, 
 The song of birds, and bleat of 
 sportive flocks ; 
 At eve to skim thy wave with noise- 
 less sail.
 
 THE WILD FERN. Ill 
 
 Watch day's last trembling radiance 
 
 fire thy breast : — 
 Thus — thus to live, were surely to be 
 
 blest. 
 
 TO THE WILD FERN. 
 
 BY J. F. HOLLINGS, ESQ. 
 
 Thy place is not where art exults to 
 
 raise the tended flower, 
 By terraced walk, or decked parterre, 
 
 or fenced and sheltered bower ; 
 Nor where, tlie straightly-levelled 
 
 walls of tangled boughs between, 
 The sunbeam sweeps the velvet sward, 
 
 and streams through alleys green. 
 
 Thy dwelling is the desert heath — the 
 
 wood — the haunted dell. 
 And where the wild deer stoops to 
 
 drink beside the mossy well ; 
 And by the lake, with trembling stars 
 
 inlaid when earth is still, 
 And midnight's melancholy pomp is on 
 
 the distant hill
 
 112 THE WILD FERN. 
 
 But fairer than the lightest bud, on 
 
 spring's fresh couch whicii lies ; 
 And fairer than the gentlest flower, 
 
 which glows 'neath summer skies ; 
 Or autumn's soft and mellowed tints 
 
 upon the fading tree ; — 
 Companion of the left and worn ! thy 
 
 leaf appears to me. 
 
 For I have loved where thou wert 
 
 reared in greenest strength, to 
 
 stray, 
 And mark thy feathery stem upraised 
 
 o'er lichened ruins grey : 
 Or in the fairy moonlight bent, to meet 
 
 the silvering hue; 
 Or glistening yet, when noon was high, 
 
 with morn's unvanished dew. 
 
 And if the place were mine to choose, 
 
 when being's night should call, 
 Where, on this ever-verdant earth, to 
 
 share the sleep of all. 
 My grave should be the mountain's 
 
 height, where giasts were sighing 
 
 lone, 
 And thou in graceful pride wert nigh, 
 
 to deck the funeral stone.
 
 THE WILD FERN. 113 
 
 It is a vain and baseless trust, by err- 
 ing thoughts imprest; 
 
 But how resides its sleepless power 
 within the musing breast ? 
 
 That yet the soul shall wander back 
 from that far-distant shore, 
 
 And linger by its wonted haunts, and 
 where it strove before. 
 
 Thus to its false and frail abode the 
 
 yearning spirit clings , 
 Thus lingers human love below, with 
 
 unaspiring wings : 
 And what on life's o'erclouded way 
 
 one gleam of joy has cast, 
 We fondly think shall still allure when 
 
 life — grief— toil — are past. 
 
 8
 
 114 
 
 OH! LET US JNEVER MEET 
 AGAIN! 
 
 BY MISS LOUISA H. SHERIDAN. 
 
 Nay, seek no more with soothing art 
 
 (Since all our hours of love are 
 vanished), 
 To cheer with hope this aching heart, 
 
 From which all thought of joy is 
 banished ! 
 Thou lov'st no more ! too well I know, 
 
 All hope to bring thee back is vain : 
 And, as I'd hide, from all, my woe, 
 
 Oh ! let us never meet again ! 
 
 I'll shun thee in the festive hall, 
 Where joyous forms around are seen. 
 
 Lest I might weep to think of all 
 Those scenes where we've together 
 been ! 
 
 I'll shun thee where the tide of song 
 Comes o'er my ear with well-known 
 strain : 
 
 Thy tones would on my mem'ry throng- 
 So let us never meet again !
 
 LET US NEVER MEET AGAIN. 115 
 
 No more my favourite bard I'll read, 
 For thou hast marked each well- 
 known page : 
 *Tis cold forgetfulness I need ; 
 Nought else my sorrow could as- 
 suage. 
 I cannot seek my pencil's aid, 
 
 'Twould sadly call forth mem'ry's 
 train ; 
 With thee I've sketched each hill and 
 glade, 
 Where we shall never meet again ! 
 
 And e'en my pen is faithless now ; 
 
 To seek new themes 'twill not be 
 taught : — 
 It still would keep my early vow 
 
 To write to thee my inmost thought. 
 But I will ne'er address thee more ! 
 
 My proud and wounded heart 
 'twould pain, 
 If thou shouldst now my grief deplore 
 
 Oh ! may we never meet again !
 
 116 
 NOON. 
 
 BY J. F. ROLLINGS, ESft. 
 
 Here, where the elder's bough, with 
 snow-white flowers, 
 O'erhangs the dewy bank, and slowly 
 
 creep 
 The reed-entangled waters, brown 
 and deep, 
 From slumbrous stay beneath the forest 
 
 bowers, 
 Sit we awhile ; and let the sultry hours 
 Steal on unmarked. With time and 
 
 scene like this, 
 Song would be luxury, and music 
 bliss, 
 And poesy thrice armed with melting 
 
 powers. 
 By such a shore, methinks, and such a 
 stream, 
 Drank ecstacy that bard of olden 
 time, 
 When crowding came upon his noon* 
 tide dream. 
 Satyr, and knight, and sage with 
 muttered rhjone,
 
 THE UNWILLING BRIDE. 117 
 
 And Talus, and that shield with sun- 
 bright beam, 
 And She, with ebon lance and crest 
 sublime. 
 
 THE UNWILLING BRIDE. 
 
 BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ. 
 
 The joy-bells are ringing — oh! come 
 to the church : 
 
 We shall see the bride pass, if we stand 
 in the porch. 
 
 The bridegroom is wealthy : how 
 brightly arrayed 
 
 Are the menials who wait on the gay 
 cavalcade ; 
 
 The steeds with the chariots prancing 
 along. 
 
 And the peasants advancing with mu- 
 sic and song 
 
 Now comes the procession : the bride- 
 maids are there, 
 
 With white robes, and ribbons, and 
 wreaths in their hair.
 
 118 THE UNWILLING BRIDE. 
 
 Yon feeble old knight the bride's father 
 
 must be, 
 And now, walking proudly, her mother 
 
 we see ; 
 A pale girl in tears slowly moves by 
 
 her side : 
 But where is the bridegroom, and 
 
 where is the bride ? 
 
 They kneel round the altar — the organ 
 
 has ceased. 
 The hands of the lovers are joined by 
 
 the priest ; 
 That bond ! which death only can sever 
 
 again I 
 Which proves ever after life's blessing 
 
 or bane ! 
 A bridal like this is a sorrovs^ful eight: 
 See ! the pale girl is bride to the feeble 
 
 old knight. 
 
 Her hand on her husband's arm pas- 
 sively lies, 
 
 And closely she draws her rich veil 
 o'er her eyes. 
 
 Her friends throng around her with 
 accents of love : 
 
 She speaks not — her pale lips inaudi- 
 bly move.
 
 THE UNWILLING BRIDE. 119 
 
 Her equipage waits — she is placed by 
 
 the side 
 Of her aged companion — a sorrowing 
 
 bride ! 
 
 Again the bells ring, and the moment 
 is come 
 
 For the young heart's worst trial, the 
 last look of home ! 
 
 They pass from the village — how 
 eagerly still 
 
 She turns and looks back from the 
 brow of the hill! 
 
 She sees the white cottage — the gar- 
 den she made — 
 
 And she thinks of her lover, aban- 
 doned — betrayed ! 
 
 But who, with arms folded, hath lin- 
 gered so long 
 
 To watch the procession, apart from 
 the throng ? 
 
 'Tis he ! the forsaken ! The false one 
 is gone — 
 
 He turns to his desolate dwelling alone ; 
 
 But happier ikere^ than the doom that 
 awaits 
 
 The bride who must smile on a being 
 she hates !
 
 120 
 THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 Suggested by an Engraving from Salvator RoMU 
 BY BERNARD BARTON, ESQ. 
 
 He kneels amid the brutish herd, 
 
 But not in dumb despair ; 
 For passion's holiest depths are stirred, 
 
 And grief finds vent in prayer. 
 
 Not abject, though in wretchedness ; 
 
 For faith and hope supply. 
 In this dread hour of deep distress. 
 
 Their feelings pure and high. 
 
 While thus a suppliant he kneels, 
 " Cast down, but not destroyed," 
 
 A sweeter bliss his sorrow feels 
 Than riot e'er enjoyed. 
 
 " I will arise," his looks declare, 
 " And seek my father's face : 
 
 His servants still have bread to spare ; 
 Be mine a servant's place." 
 
 And soon each penitential hope 
 For him shall be fulfilled ;
 
 WITH CHRIST. 121 
 
 For him his father's arms shall ope, 
 The fatted calf be killed. 
 
 O Penitence ! how strong thy spell. 
 
 O'er hearts by anguish riven ! 
 Victorious over death and hell, 
 Of mercy's power it loves to tell, 
 \nd whispers, for despair's stem knell, 
 "Repent! and be forgiven !" 
 
 WITH CHRIST. 
 
 BY RICHARD HOWITT, ESQ. 
 
 There is such life in all his words. 
 
 As o'er from page to page we turn, 
 Such truth, such eloquence, and power, 
 
 Our hearts within us bum. 
 It cannot be the time is gone, 
 
 We cannot think the sera past, 
 Nor deem that in another cUme 
 
 And age our lot is cast. 
 
 As on we move from field to field, 
 From village unto village on, 
 
 He, with the following multitude, 
 Seem thence before us gone.
 
 123 WITH CHRIST. 
 
 We press to see whom thousands seek, 
 We hear the glowing words they 
 hear, 
 
 Knowledge as boundless as the skies, 
 And wisdom's language clear. 
 
 Him, when alone, we find alone, 
 
 Left in the desert place, 
 Whence his pervading eye and mind 
 
 Speed through all time and space. 
 But how can He apart be left, 
 
 Whom from man's haunts a space 
 we find, 
 Who, in his comprehensive heart, 
 
 Clasps all of human kind ! 
 
 " Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
 
 We see him when he deigned to ride, 
 By an immeasurable stream 
 
 Of people deified." 
 We think upon the health, the strength, 
 
 The light, the life he gave ; 
 We see him conquering the wind. 
 
 And walking on the wave. 
 
 And in the dread and trying hour 
 When shameful death was near, 
 
 When the two spirits of the earth 
 Were agony and fear ;—
 
 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 123 
 
 vVhen night came down upon the day. 
 And death, as from a throne, 
 
 Seemed, for a little space, to rule 
 The universe alone. 
 
 We see him bursting from the tomb 
 
 Whom mortals thought to slay, 
 Superior to the common bands 
 
 Which fetter lifeless clay. 
 And in the sad, yet glorious time, 
 
 Followed by mournful eyes, 
 We see him till we see him not, 
 
 Ascending through the skies. 
 
 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 
 
 From Pignotti. 
 BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. 
 
 Nurtured up)on Aurora's breast, 
 A little lucid drop was seen 
 
 (From its soft, dewy seat displaced), 
 Descendmg through the blue serene. 
 
 On wanton Zephyr's wing upborne 
 Gently it floated in mid air.
 
 124 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 
 
 And from its glittering orb threw back 
 The dawn's young beams, that qui- 
 vered there ; 
 
 In slow and quiet circles, still 
 Hovering and lingering — Ah! in 
 vain ; 
 
 For now, on peril's brink, it hung 
 O'er the broad bosom of the main. 
 
 There, as it heard the thunders roar, 
 And saw the angry billows swell, 
 
 Saw it must quickly be ingulfed 
 Within that dark receptacle ; 
 
 In terror's anguished tone it cried — 
 " What destiny, alas ! is mine, 
 
 Being at once and name to lose, 
 Whelmed in this black and bitter 
 brine ! 
 
 " A tiny liquid atom I, 
 
 To the keen-sighted glance scarce 
 known — 
 Ah ! what must be my hapless fate, 
 
 'Midst Ocean's boiling surges thrown? 
 
 " Ye gentle daughters of the Mom, 
 Sweet breezes that in ether play,
 
 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 125 
 
 Oh ! bear me on your buoyant wings ! 
 Oh ! snatch me from that fate away ! 
 
 " Dread father Phoebus, lord of light I 
 Bid thy all-potent fires prevail, 
 
 That so, expanded and diffused. 
 This frame in vapour may exhale." 
 
 Fruitless, alas ! were all those prayers, 
 To an unhearing power addrest ! 
 
 Near and more near, it trembles now 
 On that blue surge's foam-tipt crest. 
 
 But lo! where down yon mountain's 
 side, 
 
 In all his gathered force amain 
 Hurrying, a headlong River sweeps, 
 
 With wreck and ruin in his train. 
 
 With harsh and hollow-sounding roar, 
 He flashes on from steep to steep : 
 
 Couched on their far-off flinty bed, 
 The startled shepherds bound from 
 sleep : 
 
 Then rushing o'er the fertile plain, 
 He spreads his furious flood so wide 
 
 That scarce the forest's topmost boughs 
 Appear above the tossing tide.
 
 126 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 
 
 And whirled in many an eddying maze, 
 Upon the torrent rough and strong, 
 
 Oaks, their vast roots in air, are seen, 
 With herds and herdsmen, rolled 
 along. 
 
 In all its bright and broad expanse 
 Revealed, he views the placid Sea ; 
 
 And deems himself to its stern might 
 Equal, if not superior he I 
 
 " Is this" — the haughty blusterer thus 
 Questions, in accents of disdain — 
 
 "This, what I still have heard pro- 
 claimed, 
 Th' immense, interminable Main ? 
 
 " Let me but meet the swelling foe, 
 And soon, in my victorious wave, 
 Thetis and Ocean's self shall find, 
 With all their train, a common grave.' 
 
 Then — so to quell th' advancing tide 
 With energies concentrated — 
 
 He bids his closing billows flow 
 Within a narrower, deeper bed. 
 
 Trembles each bank beneath the shock, 
 As forth the mingling currents pour
 
 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 127 
 
 Their frantic force ; and, blanched with 
 foam, 
 Speed onward to th' opposing shore. 
 
 And thus to war implacable, 
 
 With tongue of taunt, and heart of 
 pride, 
 Are Neptune and his subject gods 
 
 And all their briny realms, defied. 
 
 But now, from far, slow-moving on, 
 The stately Main in tranquil flow, 
 
 Resistless combatant ! invades 
 The confines of the vaunting foe. 
 
 Marking th' unruffled dignity 
 
 (At distance seen) of Ocean's waves, 
 
 His headlong course the River plies, 
 And with augmented fury raves. 
 
 And now they meet.and now they clash, 
 Flood fierce encountering hostile 
 flood; 
 While trickling showers of silvery 
 spray 
 Attest the agonizing feud. 
 
 Hemmed in the narrow pass, Sir Stream 
 Tosses, and fain would hurry on :
 
 128 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 
 
 And wheels in many a circling whirl, 
 And utters many a wailing groan. 
 
 Wrenched from its nether depths, the 
 sand 
 
 In turbid jets around, above 
 Is hurled — the banks the crash repeat — 
 
 While Ocean scarce is seen to move. 
 
 No tempest blackens at his beck, 
 No storm he summons to his aid ; 
 
 But far and wide his azure back 
 In smooth serenity is spread. 
 
 And thus, like vilest things unfelt. 
 
 In still and silent majesty, 
 Without an effort, he subdues 
 
 His struggling, sinking enemy ; 
 
 Who now, with severed, broken force, 
 His vigour spent, his vapouring gone, 
 
 In the vast bitter gulf immerged 
 Steals to his fate unseen, unknown. 
 
 Forgotten thus the braggart Brook, 
 And lost in Ocean's yawning tomb, 
 
 Of the poor solitary Drop, 
 Ah! what shall be the wretched 
 doom?
 
 THE DROP AND THE RIVER. 129 
 
 [t falls — but on the very verge 
 Of mingling with the boundless 
 main, 
 
 A shell within its silver breast 
 Receives the shrinking denizen ; 
 
 And by its vivifying juice 
 
 Pervades and quickens what it 
 shrines, 
 Till, in its bright recess, a pearl 
 
 Of purest ray serenely shines — 
 
 A pearl, which after many a turn 
 Of splendid change, with lucid beam 
 
 Glitters, exalted, in the front 
 Of Asia's proudest diadem. 
 
 And still in meek and modest guise 
 Throned (timid gem !) on regal brow, 
 
 With servile homage in the dust 
 Sees haughtiest satraps prostrate 
 bow. 
 
 Instructed by these different fates. 
 Let lowly, lofty natures know 
 
 What blessings from humility. 
 From arrogance what mischiefs flow 
 
 Q
 
 130 
 
 THE FAREWELL OF COLONNA. 
 
 Towards the close of the fifteenth century the 
 Italian wars had exiled a considerable number of dis- 
 tinguished men from their respective homes. Among 
 the rest was Stephano Colonna, of the illustrious Ro- 
 man family of the name. He was charged with ihe 
 singular offence of laying a spell on Leonore, a 
 daughter of one of the princes of the house of D'Esfe, 
 which deprived her of the power of sleep. The 
 princess had for some time "outwatched the stars," 
 and written various MSS. which she scattered and 
 tore, and had completed the evidence of her being 
 in the hands of witchcraft, by refusing to share the 
 throne of Naples. The spell might more easily 
 have been accounted for by the grace, wit, and pas- 
 sion of Stephano Colonna, one of the handsomest 
 cavaliers of the land of romance. It is not improba- 
 ble, too, that he had, according to the habit of his 
 age, actually made some use of the supposed powers 
 of the magician, or seer, Fabricio, who committed 
 such havoc in cabinets and alcoves with the heads of 
 statesmen and he-arts of ladies, towards the close of 
 the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries. 
 On Colonna, when he was arrested, was certainly 
 found an amulet of the Bezoar. which he confessed to 
 be a talisman, purchased at a high price from a Moor; 
 with a paper of mystic characters, for which he ac- 
 knowledged that he was waiting the interpretation 
 by a spirit who obeyed the enchanter. However, he 
 declared himself perfectly innocent of any attempt to 
 •xert those singular powers on the princess. Tba
 
 FAREWELL OF COLONNA. 131 
 
 inflaence of his family saved him from the fate of a 
 dealer with the evil one. But he was compelled to 
 quit Italy for ever. This to him was worse than 
 death. But the law was not merciful enough to 
 grant his wish; and in despair he took service in the 
 first expedition under Columbus. It should be stated 
 for the gratification of those who think that faithful 
 love ought always to be fortunate love, that Stephano 
 returned to Europe with all his misfortunes turned 
 into fame, by the discovery of the new world ; that 
 he found his princess faithful, and that Colonna and 
 his fair bride became the theme of Italy, for love, 
 prosperity, and an illustrious o£Fspring. 
 
 The sea, the bright and breezy sea! 
 
 The ships are bouniling on its wave : 
 Yet what are all its pomps to me ? 
 
 The exile sees it but his grave. 
 
 The shore, the green and lovely shore! 
 
 I see the crowding lance and plume ; 
 To me the trumpet thrills no more, 
 
 The banner droops, the world is 
 gloom. 
 
 A shadow sits upon my youth, 
 A fever feeds upon my frame ; 
 
 Life, what art thou ? — one great un- 
 truth ; 
 Love, what art thou? — one bitter
 
 132 FAREWELL OF COLONNA. 
 
 The sun is sinking in the sky, 
 
 The dew is ghttering on the flower; 
 
 So sank he, when one tbrm was nigh 
 That made the world an angel bower. 
 
 Dreams of the spirit ! where, oh where, 
 Ye thoughts of beauty, are ye now ? 
 
 What hand has planted dark despair 
 In this proud heart, and lofty brow ? 
 
 It is the hour. I hear the tone 
 That from those lips of roses stole. 
 
 I see the diamond eyes that shone 
 With kindred music to the soul. 
 
 Come forth, thou wondrous talisman, 
 Wrought when the stars were veiled 
 in gloom, 
 
 When stooped to earth the crescent wan, 
 When earth was but a wider tomb : 
 
 When, through the vapours thick and 
 damp. 
 
 That filled the old enchanter's cell, 
 Flashed on thy form the mystic lamp: 
 
 Come forth, thou angel of the spell! 
 
 If throned upon yon golden cloud, 
 Or floating on yon glassy wave.
 
 FAREWELL OF COLONNA. 133 
 
 Or rushing on the mountain flood, 
 Or sporting in the forest cave ; 
 
 Bright spirit of the talisman — 
 
 Come ! by thy master's mighty name! 
 
 I hear thy wing the breezes fan, 
 I see thy glance of starry (lame. 
 
 We fly ; the world is left behind ; 
 
 Bright spirit, still I speed with thee. 
 What new-born fragrance loads the 
 wind, 
 What new-born splendour gilds the 
 sea! 
 
 Now on me burst new earth, new skies; 
 
 From sunny hill to sylvan shore 
 Is all one sheet of glorious dyes, 
 
 Of purple bloom, of sparkling ore. 
 
 Far as the dazzled eye can glance, 
 Spreads the broad land one glorious 
 bower. 
 Where never shook the gory lance, 
 Where never frowned the dungeon- 
 tower. 
 
 There, in the myrtle-shaded grot. 
 Might life be silent as the stream
 
 134 FAREWELL OF COLO.VxXA. 
 
 That slumbers through its crystal vault, 
 A dream, and love be all the dream. 
 
 Beneath the forest's dew-dropt spray, 
 A king, the grassy turf my throne, 
 
 Might fond existence melt away, 
 Till the long, lonely dream were 
 done. 
 
 Again the talisman is dark, 
 
 JNight and the world are come again: 
 I hear the trump, I see the bark. 
 
 Around lie agony and Spain. 
 
 No, the high prize shall yet be won ! 
 
 Then what to me is sea or shore, — 
 The eastern or the western sun ? 
 
 Thou shall be mine, sweet Leonora 
 
 MEilOR.
 
 135 
 
 TfflRTEEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 ^Beggar Girl.) 
 
 Thirteen years ago, mother, 
 
 A little child had you ; 
 Its limbs were light, its voice was soft. 
 
 Its eyes were — oh, so blue! 
 It was your last, your dearest, 
 
 And you said, when it was born, 
 It cheered away your widowhood, 
 
 And made you iinlbrlorn. 
 
 Thirteen years ago, mother, 
 
 You loved that little child, 
 Although its temper wayward was. 
 
 And its will so strong and wild ; 
 You likened it to the free bird, 
 
 That flies to the woods to sing 
 To the river fair, the unfettered air. 
 
 And many a pretty thing. 
 
 Thirteen years ago, mother, 
 The world was in its youth : 
 
 There was no past ; and the all to come 
 Was Hope, and Love, and Truth. 
 
 The dawn came dancing onwards, 
 The day was ne'er too long,
 
 136 THIRTEEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 And every night had a fairy sight, 
 And every voice a song. 
 
 Thirteen years ago, mother, 
 
 Your child was an infant small, 
 But she grew, and budded, and 
 bloomed at last, 
 Like the rose on your garden wall. 
 Ah, the rose that you loved was trod 
 on, — 
 Your child was lost in shame, 
 And never since hath she met your 
 smile, 
 And never heard your name » 
 
 ( Widow.) 
 
 Be dumb, thou gipsy slanderer, 
 
 What is my child to thee ? 
 What are my troubles — what my jojrs? 
 
 Here, take these pence, and flee! 
 If thou wilt frame a story 
 
 Which speaks of me or mine, 
 Go say you found me singing, girl, 
 
 In the merry sun-shine. 
 
 {Beggar Girl.) 
 
 Thirteen years ago, mother, 
 The sun shone on your wall :
 
 THIRTEEN TEARS AGO. 137 
 
 He shineth now through the winter's 
 mist, 
 
 Or he shineth not at all. 
 You laughed then, and 5-our little one 
 
 Ran round with raerrj' feet : 
 To-day you hide your eyes in tears 
 
 And i— am in the street I 
 
 ( Widow.) 
 
 Ah, God I — what frightful spasm 
 
 Runs piercing through my heartl 
 It cannot be my bright one, 
 
 So pale — so worn ; — Depart! 
 Depart — yet no, come hither I 
 
 Here ! hide thee in ray breast. 
 I see thee again, — a^aiv ! — and I 
 
 Am once more with the blessed . 
 
 {Beggar Girl. 
 
 Ay, — gaze ! — 'Tis I, indeed, mother, 
 
 Your loved, — your lost, — your child ! 
 The rest o' the bad world scorn me, 
 
 As a creature all defiled : 
 But you — you'll take me home, mother ? 
 
 And I — (tho' the grave seems nigh,) 
 I'll bear up still ; and for your sake, 
 
 I'll struggle — not to die! 
 
 B.C.
 
 138 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A LTFE. 
 
 Day dawned. Within a curtained 
 
 room, 
 Filled, to faintness, with perfume, 
 A lady lay, at point of doom. 
 
 Day closed. A child had seen the 
 
 light: 
 But for the lady, fair and hright, 
 She rested in undreaming night! 
 
 Springs came. The lady's grave was 
 
 green ; 
 And, near it, oftentimes was seen 
 A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien. 
 
 Years fled. He wore a manly face, 
 And struggled in the world s rough 
 
 race. 
 And won, at last, a lofty place. 
 
 And then — he died! — Behold, before 
 
 Humanity's poor sum and story ; — 
 Life,— Death,— and (all that is of) 
 Glory. B. C
 
 139 
 
 ON THE TOMB OF ABELARD 
 AND ELOISA. 
 
 O'er this pale stone let Love and 
 Beauty weep, 
 
 For here the wrecks of mighty passion 
 sleep. 
 
 Here, where no jealous pang, no tyrant 
 hand. 
 
 Can break, O Love, thy sweet and bit- 
 ter band, 
 
 Lies Abclard's by Eloisa's heart; 
 
 One to the last, not even in death to 
 part! 
 
 Here, where the wounded spirit bleeds 
 no more, 
 
 Their pilgrimage of life and love is o'er.
 
 140 
 THE EUTHANASIA. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BIBLE. 
 
 " Vanity of vanities."~SoZomon. 
 
 What art thou, Life ? The saint and 
 
 sage 
 Hath left it written on this page, 
 That thou art nothing — dust, a breath, 
 A bubble broke by chance or death; 
 A sun-ray on a rushing stream. 
 A thought, a vanity, a dream. 
 
 And truly hath he told the tale : 
 Bear witness cell, and cloister pale, 
 Where loveliness, and vvealtli, and 
 
 birth, 
 Have sunk from sights and sounds of 
 
 earth, 
 And chilled the heart, and veiled the 
 
 eye. 
 And, daily dying, learned to die. 
 
 Yet, Life, thou'rt given for mighty 
 things ; 
 plume the infant angel's wings ;
 
 THE LONELY HEART. 141 
 
 To bid our waywardness of heart, 
 Like Mary, choose the better part ; 
 To watch, and weep our guilt away, 
 " To-day, while yet 'tis called to-day." 
 
 If trials come. Eternal God ! 
 By thee the vale of thorns was trod. 
 If death be nigh, shall man repine 
 To bear the pangs that once were thine ? 
 To bleed where once thy heart was 
 
 riven, 
 And follow from the Cross to Heaven ! 
 Aim. 
 
 THE LONELY HEART. 
 
 BY SARAH STICKNEY. 
 
 They tell me I am happy — and 
 
 I try to think it true ; 
 They say I have no cause to weep, 
 
 My sorrows are so few ; 
 That in the wilderness we tread, 
 
 Mine is a favoured lot ; 
 My petty griefs all fantasies, 
 
 Would I but heed them not.
 
 142 THE LONELY HEART. 
 
 It may be so ; the cup of life 
 
 Has many a bitter draught, 
 Which those who drink with silent lips 
 
 Have smiled on while they quaffed 
 It may be so ; I cannot tell 
 
 What others have to bear, 
 But sorry should I be to give 
 
 Another heart my share. 
 
 They bid me to the festive board 
 
 I go a smiling guest, 
 Their laughter and their revelry 
 
 Are torture to my breast ; 
 They call for rnusic, and there comev 
 
 Some old famihar strain ; 
 1 dash away the starting tear. 
 
 Then turn — and smile again 
 
 But oh ! my heart is wandering 
 
 Back to my father's home. 
 Back to my sisters at their play, 
 
 The meadows in their bloom, 
 The blackbird on the scented thorn, 
 
 The murmuring of the stream. 
 The sounds upon the evening breeze, 
 
 Like voices in a dream ; 
 
 The watchful eyes that never more 
 Shall gaze upon my brow,
 
 OUR OWN FIRE-SIDE. 143 
 
 The smiles — Oh ! cease that melody, 
 
 I cannot bear it now ! 
 And heed not when the stranger sighs, 
 
 Nor mariv the tears that start, 
 There can be no companionship 
 
 For loneliness of heart ! 
 
 OUR OWN FIRE-SIDE. 
 
 BY JOHN CLARE. 
 
 O0R fire-side's easy chair — 
 
 Is there any place beside 
 Where such pleasant cheer we share ? 
 
 Where the hours so gently glide ? 
 Though but humble be the fare 
 
 That Want's daily toils provide, 
 Dainty's cup can ne'er compare 
 With the joy that sparkles there, 
 
 By our own fire-side. 
 
 Would you meet with genuine Mirth 
 Where she comes a willing guest? 
 
 'Tis the quiet social hearth, 
 Well I wot, she loveth best; 
 
 Where the little ones, at play, 
 Prattle by their mother's side.
 
 144 OUR OWN FIRE-SIDE. 
 
 And the elder, mildly gay, 
 Laugh and sing the hours away 
 By their own fire-side. 
 
 An honest man, though poor, 
 
 Yet may feel an honest pride, 
 While he tells his troubles o'er 
 
 Where his heart hath nought to hide. 
 He who falls from high estate 
 
 No great grievance hath to bide, 
 If he calmly meets his fate. 
 Where Content and Quiet wait 
 
 By the rustic fire-side. 
 
 They who love us till we die, 
 
 VVho through troubles have been 
 tried, 
 Who will watch the closing eye 
 
 When all grows cold beside — 
 Where shall friends like these be found, 
 
 Search we earth and ocean wide ? 
 Where, on all this weary round. 
 Save that hallowed spot of ground 
 
 Called our own fire-side ? 
 
 In my chimney's cozy nook 
 Thus I chant my rustic lay, 
 
 'Neath the rafters, brown with smoke 
 Curling up for many a day.
 
 STANZAS TO 145 
 
 Wealth may boast his splendid hall, 
 
 Pomp and luxury and pride, 
 Sculptured roof and pictured wall — 
 There's no comfort in them all 
 Like my own lire-side. 
 
 STANZAS TO . 
 
 BY ELIZA WALKER. 
 
 I AM not gay when thou art here ; 
 
 My trembling heart hath joy too deep-, 
 A feeling strange, half bliss, half fear. 
 
 So moves my soul, 1 fain would weep. 
 
 With earnest gaze I read thy face — 
 As eastern Magi searched the sky. 
 
 And sought its starry depths to trace 
 For promise of their destiny. 
 
 I ask thine eyes, thy lip, thy brow, 
 If type of change is written there; 
 
 If what looks pure and noble now 
 Shall bring my trusting heart despair 
 
 Vain fears, away !— still, still I'll cling 
 With strong undoubting faith to thee 
 10
 
 146 UP, MARY, LOVK. 
 
 My hopes, my joys, my sorrows bring 
 To thy fond bosom's sanctuary ! 
 
 SONG....VF, MARY, LOVE ! 
 
 Up, Mary, love, up ! — for the breeze is 
 
 awake. 
 And the mists are retiring in wreaths 
 
 from the lake : 
 At the lark's early melody, joyous and 
 
 shrill, 
 Leaps the stag from liis lair, and the 
 
 goat on the hill. 
 
 Our boats are all ready, their streamers 
 
 displayed. 
 And the boatmen's blithe carol is heard 
 
 in the giade ; 
 Our friends are assembled — the gallant, 
 
 the kind : 
 But the fairest and dearest still lingers 
 
 behind. 
 
 In yon copee-wavmg isle, ere the 
 
 closing of eve, 
 Fair cheeks will be glowing, young 
 
 hearts will believe ,
 
 UP, MARY, LOVE. 147 
 
 For a spirit of love and delight is abroad, 
 And sheds its sweet magic o'er moun- 
 tain and flood. 
 
 'Tis sweet o'er the waters the bugle to 
 
 hear, 
 With the oar's mingled dash falling 
 
 faint on the ear ; 
 To view, far beneath us, the glittering 
 
 throng, 
 And catch the wild sounds of the dance 
 
 and the song. 
 
 But sweeter by far from the revel to 
 stray, 
 
 To cheat the mad whirl of the thought- 
 less and gay ; 
 
 By the lake's lonely margin our vows 
 to repeat, 
 
 And forget all besides in our blissful 
 retreat. 
 
 And sweeter than all, in the slumbers 
 
 of night 
 To recall in soft visions those hours of 
 
 delight. — 
 Such joys, and ten thousand besides, 
 
 wouldst thou prove, 
 Rise— join us — and bless us, oh Mary, 
 
 my love ! 
 
 J. F. W. H.
 
 148 
 BE HEAVEN MY STAY. 
 
 BY JOHN RAMSAY. 
 
 In all the changes here below 
 Of transient weal or trying woe 
 It may be given my soul to know, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When the faint heart would fail for fear, 
 No human eye to pity near, 
 No hand to wipe the bitter tear, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When I must bear the worldling's scorn, 
 Derided for my lot forlorn, 
 E'en of itself but hardly borne, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When of the friends whom once I knew, 
 Around me [ can find but few. 
 And doubts arise if these be true, — 
 Be Heaven ray stay. 
 
 When days of health and youth are 
 
 flown, 
 My path with faded roses strown,
 
 BE HEAVEN MY STAY. 149 
 
 And thorns are all I find my own, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When full of tossingson my bed, 
 I cannot rest my weary head, 
 Scared with dim visions of the dead,— 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When sorely chastened for my sins, 
 And pleasure ends while grief begins, 
 And agony no guerdon wins, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When all in vain I strive to brave 
 The gloom of Jordan's swelling wave. 
 And hand of mortal cannot save, — 
 Be Heaven my stay. 
 
 When prayer no longer will prevail, 
 When praise sinks to a trembling wail, 
 When faith itself begins to fail, — 
 Be Heaven my stay ! 
 
 Aberdeen.
 
 150 
 MADEIRA. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 On the deep and quiet sea 
 The day was fast declining; 
 
 In the far empurpled sky 
 A few bright stars were shining. 
 
 And the moon looked through the 
 clouds 
 Which round her path were sweep- 
 ing, 
 Like some lone and gentle one 
 Who Love's vigil late is keeping. 
 
 Anchored offtiiat beauteous coast, 
 
 A noble ship is lying, 
 While above her stately mast 
 
 Are English colours flying. 
 
 For the shore is now in sight, 
 And the porfume of its flowers, 
 
 And the odour of its vines, 
 
 Make sweet the twilight hours. 
 
 There is a silence in that ship 
 Each step is softly taken,
 
 MADEIRA. 151 
 
 Am around some dear one's bed, 
 Whose sleep they feared to waken. 
 
 But it is not sleep, now rocked 
 By the heaving of the billow ; 
 
 But a darker slumber flits 
 Around a weary pillow. 
 
 They have brought her from the land 
 Where her parents' ashes slumber ; 
 
 They have brought her to the south, 
 But her days have told their num- 
 ber. 
 
 Though the vault that bears her name 
 
 Will not open for another, 
 And she is the only child 
 
 That sleeps not by her mother ; 
 
 Yet the loveliest and the last 
 Of that ancient line is failing ; 
 
 Like those evanescent hues 
 In the shadowy west now paling. 
 
 She is laid upon the deck, 
 
 For the cool land breeze is blowing ; 
 But the last faint warmth of life 
 
 Fast from her cheek is going.
 
 152 MADEIRA. 
 
 And her loosened long black hair 
 Is sweeping darkly round her, 
 
 As if it were the solemn pall 
 That already bound her. 
 
 But the sweet pale mouth was calm, 
 And the eyes were meekly closing ! 
 
 And upon the marble cheek 
 Was the silken lash reposing ; — 
 
 Softly as a little child 
 
 Sleeps on its mother's bosom, 
 Sweetly as a tender flower 
 
 Closes its languid blossom. 
 
 There were eyes unused to weep, 
 Around her dim with weeping ; 
 
 Yet death seemed not for tears, 
 'Twas so like sweetest sleeping. 
 
 Not beneath the deep sea waves, 
 Vexed with perpetual motion, 
 
 Neither in the sparry caves 
 Of the tumultuous ocean. 
 
 Did that youthful maiden rest — 
 She had more fit entombing 
 
 In that balmy southern isle, 
 
 With its summer's sunny blooming.
 
 LOVR. 153 
 
 There the moon will shed her light, 
 There the watching stars bum 
 clearer ; 
 
 For never yet did earth enshrine 
 One fairer or one dearer. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 BY CALDER CAMPBELL. 
 
 Oh ! Love I — true Love ! — what alters 
 
 thee ? Not all 
 The changes that flit o'er the heart 
 
 of man? 
 Thou art the fruit that ripens — not to 
 
 fall 
 The flower that lives beyond the 
 
 summer's span ; 
 The clinging plant that props the 
 
 crumbling wall — 
 The vestal fire, which braves the 
 
 winter's ban : 
 Nor is extinguished by the sleet or 
 
 snow 
 Of human cruelty, and crime, and woe !
 
 154 LOVE. 
 
 Thou art the shadow of the heart, that 
 
 tends 
 Our footsteps through bright sun- 
 shine or black shade ; 
 Cold chills thee not — indifference but 
 
 amends — 
 Want cannot kill thee, suffering not 
 
 dissuade ; 
 Thou art Life's food, the morsel Mercy 
 
 lends 
 To nourish, when all other banquets 
 
 fade: 
 Yea ! all conspires this maxim's truth 
 
 to prove — 
 Life is not where we live, but where we 
 
 love! 
 
 With me love is a vision of the mind, 
 A dream that dazzles when I do not 
 sleep ; 
 A phantom, faintly seen and undefined ; 
 An opiate, giving thoughts ecstatic, 
 deep, 
 A holy spirit, in a tomb esnhrined. 
 O'er which humanity doth wail and 
 weep: 
 For purest love hath ever on its wings 
 A blend of earthly and unearthly 
 things !
 
 155 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY H. F. CHORLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Friend, whose smile had ever power 
 
 From its chains my soul to free, 
 Making all a summer bower 
 
 What were desert, save for thee , 
 By the love I kept so long 
 All unchanged through scorn and 
 wrong, 
 For thee alone — 
 Grieve not thou for days of yore 
 And remember me no more 
 When 1 am gone. 
 
 Thou wilt weep, I know, to see 
 Yonder picture on the wall ; 
 Yonder dulcimer to thee 
 
 Often will my song recall : 
 Hide them both in some dark cell. 
 Whence may come no saddening spell 
 
 Of glance or tone 
 Fading memories to restore : 
 O remember me no more 
 
 When I am gone.
 
 156 
 
 THE SNOWt 
 
 SY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ. 
 
 The silvery Snow ! — the silvery Snow ! 
 
 Like a glory it falls on the fields below ; 
 
 And the trees with their diamond 
 branches appear 
 
 Like the fairy growth of some magical 
 sphere ; 
 
 While soft as music, and wild as white, 
 
 It glitters and floats in the pale moon- 
 light, 
 
 And spangles the river and fount as 
 they flow ; 
 
 Oh ! who has not loved the bright, beau- 
 tiful snow ! 
 
 The silvery snow, and the crinkling 
 
 frost — 
 How merry we go when the Earth 
 
 seems lost; 
 Like spirits that rise from the dust of 
 
 Time, 
 To live in a purer and holier clime ! 
 A new creation without a stain — 
 Lovely as Heaven's own pure domain
 
 DEATH OF RACHEL. 157 
 
 But, ah! like the many fair hopes of 
 
 our years, 
 It glitters awhile — and then melts into 
 
 THE DEATH OF RACHEL. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. 
 
 She felt — in many a patient tear, 
 And yearning hope, and anxious fear, 
 And tinge of matron shame, tliat lies 
 On the frail cheek and languid eyes — 
 Through all its change of silent woe, 
 The curse of Eve — a mother's throe .' 
 Then died — without one hour to share 
 The hard-earned due of woman's race, 
 The outstretched hand, the voiceless 
 
 prayer. 
 The infant's weak, but dear embrace ! 
 Oh! if there be a care below, 
 One human thought, uncharged with 
 
 sin, 
 'Tis the self-yielding, pious glow 
 With which a mother's toils begin!
 
 158 DEATH OF RACHEL. 
 
 The Patriarch stood beside her bed, 
 And love's unwearied vigil kept, 
 Till love was watching o'er the dead- 
 Then bowed his stricken head, and 
 
 wept! 
 He placed the leafy chaplet o'er 
 Her breast ; and touched, with painful 
 
 kiss, 
 The clammy lips that sprang no more 
 With dewy warmth to welcome his. 
 
 They raised a pillar o'er her grave, 
 A simple mass of naked stone, 
 Hewn with such art as sorrow gave, 
 E'er haughty sculpture yet was Imown 
 There oft the fiery Gentile trod, 
 But did not crush the flowery sod ; 
 And childhood, as it wandered near. 
 Gazed with uncertain look of fear, 
 And checked its noisy sport awhile, 
 To whisper by the mossy pile !
 
 159 
 MEMORY. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON AN URN. 
 From the French. 
 
 Of all the early hours I knew, 
 Hours that so sweetly, swiftly flew, 
 Why does one only thing remain 
 To turn the lovely past to pain— 
 'Tis Memory ! 
 
 When all my hopes, like dreams, 
 
 passed by. 
 Why didst not thou too, Memory, fly — 
 Fly from my heart, nor thus remain 
 To turn hope, heart, and life to pain, 
 Oh Memory I
 
 160 
 INVOCATION TO DREAMS. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Written in early Youth. 
 
 The clouds of night, the wings of 
 sleep, 
 Are brooding now o'er hill and 
 heath ; 
 Too startling for the silence deep, 
 
 Were music's faintest breath. 
 Descend, ye visions, from aerial bowers 
 To glorify your own soft silent hours. 
 
 In hope or fear, in toil or pain, 
 
 The weary day for man hath passed ; 
 Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign, 
 
 Now let your spells be cast ! 
 Steal from lone hearts the pang, sad 
 
 eyes the tear. 
 And lift the veil that hides a brighter 
 sphere. 
 
 Oh ! bear your kindliest balm to thos^ 
 Who fondly, vainly, mourn the d'laa ; 
 
 To them that world of peace di?*»lr^e, 
 Where the pure soul is fled
 
 INVOCATION TO DREAMS. 161 
 
 Where love, immortal in his native 
 
 clime, 
 Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight 
 
 from time. 
 
 Hat'te ! to his loved, his distant land, 
 
 On your light wings the exile bear ; 
 To feel once more his heart expand 
 
 In his own mountain air — 
 Hear the wild echo's well known 
 
 strains repeat, 
 And bless each note as Heaven's own 
 music sweet 
 
 But oh ! with fancy's brightest ray, 
 Kind dreams ! the bard's repose il- 
 lume ; 
 Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
 
 And bowers of Eden bloom. 
 He needs those glimpses of his native 
 
 skies, 
 To light him on through life's realities. 
 
 No voice is on the air of night, 
 Through folded leaves no murmurs 
 creep; 
 Nor star nor moonbeam's dewy light, 
 Falls on the brow of sleep. 
 11
 
 lo'i THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 Descend, oh visions ! from aerial 
 
 bowers, 
 Dim, silent, solemn, are your chosen 
 
 hours. 
 
 THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 BY MARY HOWETT. 
 
 Like an ocean breeze afloat, 
 In a little pearly boat, 
 Pearl within and round about. 
 And a silken streamer out, 
 Over the sea, over the sea, 
 Merrily, merrily, saileth he I 
 
 Not for battle, noi for pelf, 
 But to pleasure his own self. 
 Sails he on for many a league, 
 Nor knoweth hunger nor fatigue : 
 Past many a rock, past many a shore. 
 Nor shifts a sail, nor lifts an oar. 
 Oh! the joy of sailing thus — 
 Like a brave old Nautilus. 
 
 Much he knows, the northern whaler 
 More the Great Pacific sailor j
 
 THE NAUTILUS. 163 
 
 And Phoenicians, old and grey, 
 In old times knew more than they ; 
 But, oh I daring voyager small, 
 More thou knowest than they all I 
 
 Thou didst laugh at sun and breeze 
 On the new-created seas : 
 Thou wast with the dragon broods 
 In the old sea solitudes. 
 Sailing in the new-made light 
 With the curled up Ammonite ! 
 Thou survived the awful shock 
 That turned the ocean-bed to rock,* 
 And changed its myriad living swarms 
 To the marble's veined forms — 
 Fossil scrolls that tell of change. 
 
 Thou wast there !— thy little boat, 
 Airy voyager, kept afloat 
 O'er the waters wild and dismal. 
 O'er the yawning gulfs abyssmal; 
 Amid wreck and overturning — 
 Rock imbedding, heaving, burning! 
 'Mid the tumult and the stir, 
 Thou, most ancient mariner. 
 
 * The little Nautilus is found imbedded with tho 
 fossil remains of those sea-crocodiles, and dragon- 
 like creatures which have ceased to exist.
 
 164 THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 In that pearly boat of thine, 
 Sat'st upon the troubled brine ! 
 
 Theri thou saw the settling ocean 
 Calming from its dark commotion ; 
 And, less mighty than the first, 
 Forth a lisw creation burst ! — 
 
 Saw each crested billow rife 
 With ten thousand forms of life ; 
 Saw the budding sea-weed grovr 
 In the tranquil deeps below, 
 And within the ocean-mines 
 Hourly, branching corallines. 
 
 Thou didst know the sea, ere mai 
 
 His first voyage had began ; 
 
 All the world hadst sailed about, 
 
 Ere America was found out — 
 
 Ere Ulysses and his men 
 
 Came to Ithaca again. 
 
 Thou wast sailing o'er the sea, 
 
 Brave old voyager, merrily, 
 
 While within the forest grew 
 
 The tree that was the first canoe. 
 
 Daring circumnavigator, 
 
 Would thou wert thine own narrat(»
 
 165 
 
 THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS 
 
 BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 I KNEW a little cottage maid, 
 
 An orphan from her birth ; 
 And yet she might be truly called 
 
 The happiest child on earth. 
 
 As guileless as the gentle lambs 
 That fed beneath her care, 
 
 Her mind was like a summer stream, 
 Unruffled, pure, and fair. 
 
 'Midst all the hardships of her lot. 
 Her looks were calm and meek; 
 
 And cheerfully the rose of health 
 Was blooming on her cheek. 
 
 The merry sports which childhood 
 loves, 
 ■ To her were never known ; 
 Yet Ellen, in her lonely hours, 
 Had pleasures of her own. 
 
 She loved her peaceful flock to lead 
 To some sweet wooded hill,
 
 166 LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 That overhung the flowery plain 
 And softly-gliding rill : 
 
 And, couched amidst the blossomed 
 heath, 
 
 From that delightful spot, 
 To mark the distant village spire. 
 
 And many a well-known cot : 
 
 Whence watched she oft the curling 
 smoke 
 
 In misty wreaths ascend, 
 And, on the blue horizon's verge, 
 
 With loftier vapours blend. 
 
 She heard a music in the sigh 
 Of streams and wavering trees. 
 
 And sang her artless songs of joy 
 To every passing breeze. 
 
 She made acquaintance with the birds 
 
 That gayly fluttered nigh ; 
 And e'en the lowly insect tribes 
 
 Were precious in her eye. 
 
 She saw a glory in each cloud, 
 
 A moral in each flower ; 
 That all to her young heart proclaimed 
 
 Their great Creator's power.
 
 LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. 167 
 
 Nor looked the little maid in vain 
 Some kindly glance to meet- 
 One lowly friend was ever near, 
 Reposing at her feet : — 
 
 A friend whose fond and generous love 
 Misfortune ne'er estranged ; 
 
 In sunshine and in storm the same 
 Through weal and woe unchanged. 
 
 The dreary heath, or barren moor, 
 
 Or park, or pasture fair, 
 Are ail alike to faithful Tray, 
 
 If Ellen is but there. 
 
 His joys are centred ^11 in her ; 
 
 His world 's the lonely wild, 
 Where he attends, the livelong day, 
 
 That solitary child.
 
 168 
 
 THE FESTA OF MADONNA DEI 
 FIORI. 
 
 They gathered in that holy place, 
 
 A young and lovely band, 
 With banners wrought with sacred 
 signs, 
 
 And flowers in each hand. 
 
 It was a summer festival 
 
 Worthy a summer sky, 
 That brought the fragrant and the 
 fair 
 
 Upon that shrine to die. 
 
 Many a little foot had been 
 
 Amid the early dew, 
 While fresh the odour to each leaf, 
 
 Fresh colour to each hue. 
 
 And many a little brow had watched 
 For weeks some favourite flower. 
 
 Proud and impatient of its growth 
 For this auspicious hour.
 
 FESTA OF MADONNA DEI FIORI. 169 
 
 And many a little heart had linked 
 
 Its deepest, dearest prayer, 
 And the fulfilment of its hope 
 
 With the sweet offerings there. 
 
 One bore a banner, where was wrought 
 
 The Virgin and her Son — 
 Her younger sister and herself 
 
 The broidery begun. 
 
 But she who held the banner now 
 
 Went on her way alone ; 
 No sister shared the sacred task: — 
 
 Her sister's task was done ! 
 
 As yet the grass was scarcely grown 
 Upon that bright young head ; 
 
 As yet the tears were warm that fell 
 Above the early dead. 
 
 Poor child ! how pale and sorrowful 
 
 She takes her silent way ! 
 A prayer for the departed one 
 
 Is on her lips to-day. 
 
 But foremost come two fairy ones 
 With dark eyes filled with light, 
 
 The very roses that they bear 
 Can scarcely be more bright.
 
 170 FESTA OF MADONNA DEI FlORl. 
 
 The youngest bears a single plant, 
 One that herself has nursed ; 
 
 A far exotic from the South, 
 The fairest and the first. 
 
 And they have tender hopes and fearp 
 
 To claim the votive vow ; 
 And parents, for whose precious sake 
 
 Their prayers are ready now. 
 
 Blest be their lovely pilgrimage, 
 Although they seek a shrine 
 
 Hallowed by a believing faith 
 Not unto us divine ! 
 
 No banners in our humbler church 
 Are waved, no flowers are strown; 
 
 The sacrifice we offer up 
 Must in the heart be shown. 
 
 And that is much if truly given : 
 
 Our vanity and pride, 
 Our empty hopes, our fair deceits, 
 
 Must there be all denied. 
 
 Those children, with an earnest faith 
 Are offering early flowers ; 
 
 Methinks their simple truth and love 
 Might teach and strengthen ours.
 
 171 
 
 THE DyiNG BOY TO THE 
 
 SLOE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " CORN LAW 
 RHYMES." 
 
 Before thy leaves, thou com'st once 
 more. 
 White blossom of the sloe ! 
 Thy leaves will come as heretofore; 
 But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, 
 Will then lie low. 
 
 A month at least before thy time 
 
 Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; 
 For well thou knovvest the frosty rime 
 Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
 No more to be. 
 
 Why here in winter ? No storm lours 
 
 O'er nature's silent shroud : 
 But blithe larks meet the sunny 
 
 showers. 
 High o'er the doomed untimely 
 flowers, 
 In beauty bowed !
 
 172 THE DYING nOY 
 
 Sweet violets in the budding grove 
 
 Peep wiiere the glad waves run ; 
 
 The wren below, the thrush above, 
 
 Of bright to-morrow's joy and love, 
 
 Sing to the sim. 
 
 And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
 
 Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
 The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er 
 
 with gold, 
 Smiles on the well, in summer cold, 
 And daisied sod. 
 
 But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
 
 And flowers in winter blow, 
 To tell me that the worm makes room 
 For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
 And thinks me slow. 
 
 For as the rainbow of the dawn, 
 
 Foretells an eve of tears — 
 A sunbeam on the saddened lawn, 
 I smile, and w*^ep to be withdrawn 
 In early years 
 
 Thy leaves will come! — but songful 
 spring 
 Will see no leaf of mine; •
 
 TO THE SLOE-BLOSSOM. 173 
 
 Her bells will ring, her bridemaids 
 
 sing, 
 When my young leaves are withering, 
 Where no suns shine. 
 
 Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy 
 breath, 
 When June's sweet Sabbaths chime! 
 But thine before my time, O Death, 
 I go where no flower blossometh, 
 Before my time. 
 
 Even as the blushes of the mon\ 
 
 Vanish, and long ere noon 
 The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, 
 So fair I bloomed : and was I bom 
 To die as soon ? 
 
 To love my mother, and to die, 
 
 To perish in my bloom. 
 Is this my briefj sad history ? 
 A tear dropped from a mother's eye 
 Into the tomb! 
 
 He lived and loved will sorrow say ; 
 
 By early sorrow tried ; 
 He smiled, he sighed, he passed away 
 His life was but an April day, — 
 He loved and died '
 
 174 THE DYING BOY. 
 
 My mother smiles — then turns away; 
 
 But turns away to weep : 
 They whisper round me,— what they 
 
 say 
 I need not hear ; for in the clay 
 I soon must sleep. 
 
 Oh, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
 
 To be both tried and true ! 
 1 ever trembled in my bliss ; 
 Now there are farewells in a kiss,— 
 They sigh adieu. 
 
 But woodbines flaunt when bluebells 
 fade 
 Where Don reflects the skies ; 
 And many a youth in Shire cliflS' shade 
 Will ramble wh&re my boyhood played. 
 Though Alfred dies ! 
 
 Then panting woods the breeze <vrll 
 feel, 
 And bowers, as heretofore, 
 Beneath their load of roses reel ; 
 But I through woodbined lanes shall 
 steal 
 No more, no more I 
 
 Well, lay me by my brother's side, 
 Where late we stood and wept ,-
 
 THE mother's hope. 175 
 
 For I was stricken when he died, — 
 I felt the arrow as he sighed 
 His last, and slept. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 
 
 BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. 
 Heaven lies about us in oar infancr. — f-Cordnoorth. 
 
 Is there, when the winds are singing 
 In the happy summer-time — 
 
 When the raptured air is ringing 
 
 With earth's music heaveu-ward 
 springing, 
 Forest-chirp, and village-chime? — 
 
 Is there, of the sounds that float 
 
 Minglingly, a single note 
 
 Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
 
 As the laughter of a child ? 
 
 Listen ! and be now delighted. 
 
 Morn hath touched her golden strings; 
 Eartli and sky their vows have plighted, 
 Life and light are reunited, 
 
 Amid countless caroUings :
 
 176 THE mother's hope. 
 
 Yet, delicious as they are, 
 There's a sound that's sweeter far- 
 One that makes the heart rejoice 
 More than all, — the human voice ! 
 
 Organ, finer, deeper, clearer, 
 
 Though it be a stranger's tone ; 
 Than the winds or waters dearer, 
 More enchanting to the hearer, 
 
 For It answereth his own. 
 But of all its witching words, 
 Sweeter than the songs of birds 
 Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
 Through the laughter of a child. 
 
 Harmonies frou. time-touched towers 
 
 Haunted strains from rivulets, 
 Hum of bees among the flowers. 
 Rustling leaves, and silver showers— 
 
 These, ere long, the ear forgets 
 But in mine there is a sound 
 Ringing du the whole year round ; 
 Heart-deep laughter that I heard. 
 Ere my child could speak a word. 
 
 Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 
 
 Fondlier formed to catch the strain- 
 Ear of one whose love is surer ;
 
 THE mother's hope. 177 
 
 Hers, the mother, the endurer 
 
 Of the deepest share of pain ; 
 Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure 
 Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
 Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, 
 Echoes of that infant-laughter. 
 
 Yes ; a mother's large affection 
 
 Hears with a mysterious sense : 
 Breathings that evade detection, 
 Whisper faint, and fine inflexion, 
 
 Thrill in her with power intense. 
 Childhood's honied tones untaught 
 Hiveth she, in loving thought ; 
 Tones that never thence depart. 
 For tfhe listens — with her heart ! 
 
 12
 
 178 
 A HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 
 
 BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 O THOU adored in heaven and earth, 
 A being divine of human birth ; 
 Son of the virgin, hear us, hear us ; 
 Son of the living God, be near us ; 
 Thou who art man in form and feature, 
 Yet God of glory, and God of nature; 
 Thou who led'st the star of the east, 
 Yet hapless lay at a virgin's breast, 
 Slept in the manger, and cried on the 
 
 knee. 
 Yet rulest o'er time and eternity; 
 Whose kind mediations never shall 
 
 cease, 
 Thou mighty God, thou Prince of 
 
 peace, 
 Pity thy creatures here kneehng in 
 
 dust. 
 Pity the beings in thee that trust. 
 
 Thou, who fedst the hungry with 
 
 bread, 
 /^nd raised from the grave the moul- 
 
 deiii^ dead,
 
 HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 179 
 
 Who walked on the waves of the rolling 
 
 main, 
 Who cried to thy Father, and cried in 
 
 vain ; 
 Yet, wept for the woes and the sins of 
 
 man. 
 And prayed for him when thy life-blood 
 
 ran ; 
 With thy last breath thou cried'st for- 
 give. 
 When dying by man that man might 
 
 live ; 
 O'er death and the grave thou hast 
 
 victory won. 
 And now art throned by the stars and 
 
 the sun, 
 For thy name's glory, hear us, hear us 
 Son of the living God, be near us. 
 
 Oh, leave the abodes of glory and 
 
 bliss, 
 The realms of heavenly happiness ; 
 Come swifter than tlie meteor of even, 
 On the lightning's wing, in the chariot 
 
 of heaven ; 
 By the gates of light and the glowing 
 
 sphere. 
 Oh, come on thy errand of mercy 
 
 here.
 
 180 IIVMN TO THE RKDKKMER. 
 
 But, Jj>T(] of glory, wp. know not thee, 
 Wo know not what wf; say ; 
 
 Wfi f;annot from tfiy [>reMftnce bo, 
 Not from thine eye away : 
 
 For, though on the right hand of our 
 
 God, 
 Thou art here in this lonely d rear ahode, 
 Bf:yond the rnrK^n and the Ktarry way, 
 Tlioij holdfrit thy Almighty sway, 
 Where hpirila in ihxxh of light are 
 
 Hwimniing, 
 And angels round the throne are hymn- 
 
 JDg. 
 Wliere waters of life are ever htream- 
 
 And erownH of glory are round thee 
 
 iKjarning ; 
 Yet present with all that eall on thee 
 In this world of woe and adversity. 
 
 Tlien,0 thou Son of the virgin, hear u«, 
 God of love and of lifc, be near us; 
 Our stains wash out, our sins forgive, 
 And before thrre let our spirits live ; 
 For thydear Oiith \n: our lKMW)ms steeled: 
 Oh, be our help, our stay, our shield ; 
 Show thy dread [lower for rnerey's sake, 
 For the Wiulsof thy children are at stake.
 
 HYMN TO Tmt REDEEMER. 181 
 
 Oh, save us ! save us ! blest Redeemer, 
 
 From the \\n\er of the scorner and 
 blasphemer ; 
 
 Oh, eonie as the floods of thy foes as- 
 semble. 
 
 That all may see, and fear, and tremble ; 
 
 l>o\v down thy heavens, and rend them 
 asunder, 
 
 Aiul fouie in the cloud, in tlte flame, or 
 the thiuider, 
 
 That lieaven and earth may see and 
 know 
 
 How much they to a ^'i^gin owe.
 
 THE SPIRITS' LAND. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " SELWIN," &C. 
 
 Oh, beauteous are the forms that stand 
 Beyond death's dusky wave, 
 
 And beckon to the spirits' land, 
 Across the narrow grave ! 
 
 No damp is on the freed one's brow, 
 
 No dimness in his eye ; 
 The dews of heaven refresh him now. 
 
 The fount of light is nigh. 
 
 The parent souls that o'er our bed 
 Oft poured the midnight prayer, 
 
 Now wonder where their cares are 
 fled, 
 And calmly wait us there. 
 
 The dearer still — the close entwined 
 With bands of roseate hue : 
 
 We thought them fair; but now we 
 find 
 'Twas but their shade we knew.
 
 THE SPIRITS LAND 183 
 
 Tis sweet, when o'er the earth un- 
 furled 
 
 Spring's verdant banners wave, 
 To think how fair yon upper world, 
 
 Which knows no wintry grave. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when tempests earth de- 
 form, 
 
 And whirlwinds sweep the sky, 
 To know a haven from the storm 
 
 When worlds themselves mu t die ; 
 
 To know that they in safety rest 
 The tranquil barks of those 
 
 Who, soaring on life's billowy crest, 
 Attained to heaven's repose; 
 
 To know that brethren fondly wait 
 
 Our mansion to prepare — 
 That death but opes that mansion's 
 gate. 
 
 And, lo ! our souls are there !
 
 184 
 GOING TO SERVICE. 
 
 BY MISS PARDOE. 
 
 The day was bright, the hour was 
 
 noon, 
 'Twas laughing, lightsome, leafy June ; 
 The breath of flowers was on the 
 
 breeze. 
 The birds were singing 'mid the trees, 
 The sun was warm on every glade, 
 The cattle rested in the shade, 
 And on the wind there swelled along 
 The chorus of the mowers' song. 
 
 At such a season of delight, 
 When all is beautiful and bright ; 
 When summer smiles on trees and 
 
 streams, 
 How worse than dull the city seems ! 
 And, oh, for one who long had dwelt 
 'Mid rural scenes, and who had felt 
 The simple joys the country yields, 
 How hard to quit her native fields .' 
 
 Young Mary was the sweetest flower 
 That ever bloomed in rustic bower ;
 
 GOING TO SERVICE. 185 
 
 As blithesome, graceful, glad, and 
 
 gay, 
 As the wild bird upon the spray ; 
 And like that bird when sickening 
 With heavy eye and drooping wing, 
 Within some network close and small, 
 So looked she to the city's thrall. 
 
 Her mother, silent, wept apart. 
 The grief was heavy at her heart ; 
 ller father stood with downcast air, 
 And whistled, to conceal his care; 
 Her little brother hushed his glee, 
 And gazed around him stealthily ; 
 While she, though sad enough the 
 
 while. 
 Controlled her tears and strove to 
 
 smile. 
 
 The longest, last embrace was o'er, 
 Her roof-tree sheltered her no more ; 
 Yet still she paused a little while 
 When she had passed the dearest 
 
 stile, 
 And looked, how lingeringly ! to see 
 The home of her glad infancy, 
 Nestling in quietude and peace 
 Amid its patriarchal trees
 
 186 GOING TO SERVICE. 
 
 Then turned she Irom that cherished 
 
 spot — 
 How sad 'twould seem when she was 
 
 not! 
 Her little brother at her side, 
 Divided between grief and pride ; 
 The grief which grows with each ca« 
 
 ress, 
 The simple pride of usefulness ; 
 While she — ah! see what she appears — 
 A lovely thing of smiles and tears \ 
 
 How quickened Mary's step, how 
 
 rushed 
 The life-blood to her cheek, which 
 
 blushed 
 Like a hedge-rose beneath the sun. 
 As forth upon her path came one 
 Who had not seen, who had not heard. 
 Her parting smile, her parting word ; 
 From whom — so whispered her young 
 
 heart — 
 'Twould be her keenest pang to part. 
 
 Who cannot shadow out the scene ? — 
 The memories of what had been. 
 The clasping hands, the tearful vows, 
 AH love's fond catalogue of woes ?
 
 GOING TO SERVICE. 187 
 
 Or who shall marvel, though once'more 
 They stood beside her father's door, 
 She blushing in her happy pride, 
 He sworn to claim her as his bride ? 
 
 They could not part ! And now they 
 
 came 
 To tell their tale to sire and dame ; 
 The words were few in which 'twas 
 
 told, 
 For love had made the suitor bold ; 
 While Mary to her mother's breast 
 Flew, like the wild-bird to its nest, 
 And whispered, with a blushing brow. 
 " I need not seek a service now !"
 
 188 
 
 THE PROPHET-CHILD. 
 
 Within the Temple slept the child, 
 The after-prop of Israel's fame, 
 
 When o'er his slumbers, calm and mild, 
 The summons of Jehovah came. 
 
 The call was heard, the child awoke ; 
 
 With beating heart and bended knee 
 The future judge and prophet spoke, — 
 
 " Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth 
 thee !" 
 
 Oh, when we hear Jehovah's voice 
 Breaking the slumber of the soul, 
 
 So may we rise, and so rejoice, 
 So bend our will to His control ! 
 
 His summons calls us even now ; 
 
 Oh, may each instant answer be, 
 " Father, to thy commands I bow, — 
 
 Speak, for thy servant heareth thee !' 
 S. C. H.
 
 189 
 
 THE WORDS OF TREES AND 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 BY JOHN BANIM 
 
 •* And thii our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees." — Shahspeare. 
 
 " Why should not trees be always 
 
 green, 
 And flowers for ever blow ?"* 
 That from their changings may be seen 
 The change of all below ; 
 And day by day, through hours and 
 
 years, 
 They challenge us to learn, — 
 Sometimes a soothing for our tears, 
 Sometimes a lesson stern. 
 
 To him who weeps, of hope stripped 
 
 bare, 
 His leaf and flow'ret shorn, 
 They say, " You are but as uoe are, 
 Yet therefore do not mourn ; 
 
 * This question wa:i proposed to the writer by a ladv*
 
 190 WORDS OF 
 
 Wild winter will so soon be past, 
 And we re-blossoming ; 
 Be patient thou, of blight and blast 
 And wait another spring." 
 
 To hitn who hath loved, and, in despite 
 Of the false one, loveth still. 
 Although her change doth nip him 
 
 qinte. 
 And bare him, at her will, 
 They say, " By trusting balm-like eyes 
 And sighs thou art undone; 
 As we, by trusting balmy skies, 
 And airs, and faithless sun." 
 
 To him, who, in ambition's bloom, 
 Thinks not, by sudden frost, 
 Or arrowy flash, or sultry gloom, 
 He may be touched and lost. 
 They say," Of nature's gorgeous things 
 We ought to have most pride ; 
 And yet, like man's imaginings, 
 We're bared, or we have died." 
 
 To flowery beauty, in her waste 
 Of pride and palmy power, 
 Who thinks that time may never feast 
 (Sole bridegroom I) in her bovver. 
 They say, " Like you, for seasons two
 
 TREES AND FLOWERS. 191 
 
 We laughed at dull decay, 
 
 Till now the third, our leaves have 
 
 stirred, 
 To strew them every way." 
 
 To those who sit on high, so \am 
 
 Of a little shining sway, 
 
 By sword, or sceptre, knightly chain, 
 
 Or ermiiied robe, they say, 
 
 " Not one of you, in all your state, 
 
 Like one of us was clothed ; 
 
 And yet your fate shall be our fate — 
 
 Your rottings shunned or loathed." 
 
 Unto earth's proud they say aloud, 
 
 "We laugh to think that we 
 
 For mirth or mourning, show or shroud, 
 
 Your servitors should be ! 
 
 For beauty's braid, alive or dead, 
 
 For the crowning of your brave ; 
 
 For cradle head, or nuptial bed. 
 
 For garden, and for grave I" 
 
 To all mankind, from year to year, 
 
 (Alas, unheard I) they say, 
 
 " Without a thought, without a fear, 
 
 Lo ! we have passed away ! 
 
 So pass not thou I so live not thou ! — 
 
 Many our lives on earth ! —
 
 192 TREES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thju hast but one — thou liv'st itoilf — 
 Beivare a second birth ! 
 
 " Ah ! leaf-like could'st thou be re-born, 
 
 Each spring-time in the sun, 
 
 Again to laugh through May-day's 
 
 morn — 
 Again a race to run ; 
 Then, scarce with thought, and scarce 
 
 with fear. 
 Thou might'st grow wintry old ; 
 And die through winter's reign so 
 
 drear, 
 Or brave his barbs of cold. 
 
 " But, ah ! since here thou diest, to have 
 Eternal life elsewhere. 
 Live not like us, who scorn a grave, 
 Or must be clothed, when bare ! 
 A life on earth, for thee too dear, 
 To earthward-loved, and given 
 Without a thought, without a fear, 
 Will not ensure thee heaven !"
 
 193 
 
 COME AND GONE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " CORN-LAW 
 RHYMES." 
 
 The silent moon-beams on the drifted 
 snow 
 Shine cold, and pale, and blue, 
 While through the cottage-door the 
 
 yule log's glow- 
 Casts on the iced oak's trunk, and grey 
 rock's brow, 
 A ruddy hue. 
 
 The red ray and the blue, distinct and 
 fair, 
 Like happy groom and bride, 
 With azured green, and emerald' 
 
 orange glare. 
 Gilding the icicles from branches bare, 
 Lie side by side. 
 
 The door is open, and the fire buma 
 bright ; 
 And Hannah, at the door. 
 Stands, — through the clear, cold-moon- 
 ed, and starless night, — 
 V3
 
 194 COME AND GONE. 
 
 Gazing intently towards the scarce-seon 
 height, 
 O'er the white moor, 
 
 Tis Christmas-eve ! and, from the dis 
 tant town, 
 Her pale apprenticed son 
 Will to his heart-sick mother hasten 
 
 down, 
 And snatch his hour of annual trans- 
 port — flown 
 Ere well begun. 
 
 The Holy Book unread upon his knee. 
 
 Old Alfred watcheth calm ; 
 Till Edwin come, no solemn prayei 
 
 prays he ; 
 Till Edwin come, the text he cannot 
 see. 
 Nor chant the psalm. 
 
 And comes he not ? Yea ; from the 
 wind-swept hill 
 The cottage-firfi he sees; 
 While of the past Remembrance drinks 
 
 her fill. 
 Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the 
 unfrozen rill 
 Shine through green t^eos.
 
 COME AND GONE. 195 
 
 In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er 
 the moor ; 
 In thought, the sheep-boy's call ; 
 In thought, he meets his mother at the 
 
 door; 
 In thought, he hears his father, old and 
 poor, 
 " Thank God for all !" 
 
 His sister he beholds, who died when 
 he. 
 In London bound, wept o'er 
 Her last sad letter ; vain her prayer to 
 
 see 
 Poor Ed win yet again !— he ne'er will be 
 Her playmate more. 
 
 No more with her will hear the bittern 
 boom 
 At evening's dewy close ; 
 No more with her will wander where 
 
 the broom 
 Contends in beauty with the hawthorn 
 bloom, 
 And budding rose. 
 
 Oh, love is strength ! love, with divine 
 control, 
 Recalls us when we roam !
 
 196 COME AND GONE 
 
 In living light love bids the dimmed 
 
 eye roll, 
 And gives a dove's wing to the fainting 
 
 soul, 
 And bears it home. 
 
 Home! — That sweet word hath turned 
 his pale lip red, 
 Relumed his tireless eye ; 
 Again the morning o'er his cheek is 
 
 spread, 
 The early rose that seemed for ever 
 dead, 
 Returns to die. 
 
 Home I home ! Behold the cottage of 
 the moor, 
 That hears the sheep-boy's call ! 
 And Hannah meets him at the open 
 
 door 
 With faint, fond scream ; and Alfred, 
 old and poor, 
 "Thanks God for all I" 
 
 His lip is on his mother's ; to ner breast 
 
 She clasps him, heart to heart ; 
 His hands between his father's hands 
 are pressed ;
 
 COME AND GONE. 197 
 
 They sob with joy, caressing and 
 caressed : 
 How soon to part ! 
 
 Why should they know that thou so 
 soon, O Death, 
 Wilt pluck him, like a weed ? 
 Why fear consumption in his quick- 
 
 dravvn breath ? 
 Why dread the hectic flower, which 
 blossometh 
 That worms may feed ? 
 
 They talk of other days, when, like the 
 birds 
 He culled the wild flowers' bloom, 
 And roamed the moorland, with the 
 
 houseless herds ; 
 They talk of Jane's sad prayer, and 
 her last words ; 
 "Is Edwin come?" 
 
 He wept. But still, almost till morn- 
 ing beamed. 
 They talked of Jane — then slept : 
 But, though he slept, his eyes half 
 open, gleamed ;
 
 198 COME AND GONE. 
 
 For still of dying Jane her brother 
 dreamed, 
 And dreaming wept. 
 
 At mid-day he arose, in tears, and 
 sought 
 The churchyard where she lies; 
 He found her name beneath the snow- 
 wreath wrought, 
 Then from her grave a knot of grass 
 he brought 
 With tears and sighs. 
 
 The hour of parting came, when feel- 
 ings deep 
 In the heart's depth awnke : 
 To his sad mother— pausing oft' to 
 
 weep — 
 He gave a token, which he bade her 
 keep 
 For Edwin's sake. 
 
 It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress, 
 
 Together twined and tied. 
 He left them, then, for ever! Could 
 
 thev less 
 Than bless and love that type of ten- 
 derness ? — 
 Childless they died?
 
 COME AND GONE. lif^ 
 
 ijong in their hearts a cherished 
 thought they wore, 
 And till their latest breath, 
 Blessed him, and kissed his last gift 
 
 o'er and o'er; 
 But they beheld iheir Edwin's face no 
 more 
 In life or death! 
 
 For where the upheav'd sea of trouble 
 foams, 
 And sorrow's billows rave, 
 Men, in the wilderness of myriad 
 
 homes, 
 Far from the desert, where the wild 
 flock roams. 
 Dug Edwin's grave.
 
 200 
 
 A WINTER SUNSET. 
 
 BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 
 
 1 LOVE a winter's sunset Look, e'en 
 
 now! 
 As the bright bird of heaven his wing 
 
 extends 
 E'en to its utmost Krait. 'Tis to fold 
 In one fond, last embrace, the earth, 
 
 which smiles 
 And catches from each golden plume, 
 
 a tinge 
 Of heavenly beauty. Look! the western 
 
 sky 
 Was never in the gorgeous summer 
 
 time 
 More bright with radiant hues, and 
 
 never slept 
 More sweetly on its breast that raoun 
 
 tain range. 
 
 Ay ! 'tis glorious all . 
 And yet how faint! how dark! com 
 
 pared with Him 
 Who thus doth condescend to shadow 
 
 forth 
 Of Deity the tokens.
 
 201 
 
 LINES. 
 
 BY MRS. FAIRLIE. 
 
 Thou bidst me dry my tearful eyes ; 
 
 But liast thou ever shed those tears, 
 In each of which such sorrow lies 
 
 As might compress the wo of years? 
 
 Oh I hast thou felt what 'tis to sigh 
 And weep o'er bliss for ever fled ? 
 
 To long, and yet to fear, to die. 
 
 When every hope is crush'd and 
 dead? 
 
 No! hadst thou ever felt that wo, 
 That aching void, that agony 
 
 Which causes these wild tears to flow, 
 And makes me heave this throbbing 
 sigh, 
 
 Thou wouldst not bid me dry the tear. 
 
 For thou wouldst know it was in 
 vain ; 
 Alas ! alas! as vain it were, 
 
 As bid me cherish hope again !
 
 202 
 
 CREATION AND REDEMPTION 
 
 BY ARCHDEACON SPENCER. 
 " Let there be light, and there was light." 
 
 " Let there be light !" — were the words 
 of creation, 
 That broke on the chaos and silence 
 of night ; 
 The creatures of mercy invoked to 
 their station, 
 Suffused into being, and kindled to 
 light. 
 
 "Let there be light!"— The Great 
 Spirit descended. 
 And flashed on the waves that in 
 darkness had slept. 
 The sun in his glory a giant ascended. 
 The dews on the earth their mild 
 radiance wept. 
 
 " Let there be light !" — And the fruits 
 and the flowers, 
 Responded in smiles to the new 
 lighted sky,
 
 CREATION AND REDEMPTION. 203 
 
 There was scent in the gale, there 
 was bloom in the bovvers, 
 Sweet sound for the ear, and soft 
 hue for the eye. 
 
 "Let there be light!" — And the mild 
 eye of woman 
 Beani'd joy on the man who this pa- 
 radise sway'd ; 
 There was joy — 'till the foe of all hap- 
 piness Fiuman, 
 Crept into those bowers — was heard 
 — and obey'd. 
 
 "Let there be light!" — Were the 
 words of salvation. 
 When man had defeated life's ob- 
 ject and end ; 
 Had waned from his glorious and glad 
 elevation, 
 Abandoned a God, and conform d to 
 a fiend. 
 
 " Let there be light !" — The same 
 Spirit supernal, 
 That lighted the torch when crea- 
 tion began,
 
 204 LORD SURREY AND 
 
 Laid aside the bright beams of his God- 
 head eternal, 
 And wrought as a servant, and wept 
 as a man. 
 
 ■ ' Let there be light !" — From Gethse- 
 mane springing, 
 From Golgotha's darkness, from Cal- 
 vary's tomb, 
 Toy, joy unto mortals, good angels are 
 singing, 
 The Shiloh has triumph'd, and death 
 is o'ercorae. 
 
 UORD SURREY AND THE FAIR 
 GERALDINE. 
 
 BY EDWARD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " In the reign of the second Grand-duke of Tus- 
 cany of Lorenza's family, (Cosmo I.) Florence, it 
 is said, beheld a novel and extraordinary spectacle. 
 A young traveller from a court and a couutry which 
 the Italians of that day seemed to regard much as 
 we now do the Esquimaux, combining the learning 
 of the scholar, and the amiable bearing of the 
 courtier, with all the rash bravery of youthful 
 romance, astonished the inhabitants of that queenly 
 city, first by rivalling her polished nobles in the 
 »ylendour of his taste, and the gallantry of his man-
 
 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 205 
 
 ners, and next by boldly proclaiming that his " La- 
 dye love" was superior to all that Italy could 
 vaunt of beauty ; that she was ' Oltre le belle bella,^ 
 fair beyond the fairest ; and maintaining his boast 
 in a solemn tourney, held in her honour, to the 
 overthrow of all his opponents. This was our 
 English Surrey, one of the earliest and most elegant 
 of our amatory poets, and the lover of the Fair Ge- 
 raldine. According to the old tradition repeated 
 by all Surrey's biographers, he visited on his travels 
 the famous necromancer Cornelius Agrippa, who, in 
 a magic mirror, revealed to him the fair figure of his 
 Geraldine, lying dishevelled on a couch, and by the 
 light of a taper, reading one of his tenderest son- 
 nets."— £(n)e* of the Poets, 
 
 'TwAS thus in the good days of old, 
 
 When hearts burn'd with chivalry's 
 blaze. 
 Our own gallant Surrey beheld 
 
 Young Geraldine weep o'er his lays : 
 'Twas thus, by the dark wizard's spell, 
 
 He savv her reposing at eve. 
 The song he had taught her so well, 
 
 Still making her young hosom heave ; 
 Still waking as tender a sigh, 
 
 As though her loved poet were 
 near. 
 Still causing as tearful an eye, 
 
 As though Surrey could kiss off each 
 tear '
 
 306 LORD SURREY AND 
 
 Oh ! would that our sages had power 
 
 To call up such visions of bliss, — 
 To show us, in hall or in bower, 
 
 Our ladies, through mirrors like this, 
 If, instead of their new figure Looms 
 
 For totting-up sixes and sevens, 
 For our Warburtons, Althorpes, and 
 Humes, 
 
 They make a few portable heavens 
 Like these, for poor youths, who, with 
 me. 
 
 Love to gaze on their mistress's 
 brow, — 
 What a fool Mr. Babbage would be 
 
 To such glass manufacturers now ? 
 
 Though could we again hope to raise 
 From his grave the famed wizard to 
 life. 
 For a few of the bards of our days 
 
 Just to peep at a love — or a wife ; 
 Instead of beholding her lie 
 In this love stricken iwse, on her 
 bed. 
 Warm tears streaming down from her 
 eye. 
 And the chaste silver moon o'er her 
 head.
 
 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 207 
 
 Bobbing over a sonnet or lay, — 
 Ten to one but the maid met his 
 sight 
 Spinning round in a teetotum way, 
 With some light-footed waltzer by 
 night ! 
 
 And oh ! by the stars, it were fun ! 
 
 If a fevv little girls that one knows, 
 Who each looks demure as a nun, 
 
 Could be seen through this glass by 
 her beaux: 
 Alas ! how the lovers would rave, 
 
 Alas ! how the maidens would 
 swoon — 
 And how many a Romeo's grave, 
 
 Chalk Farm ! wouldst thou see by 
 thy moon ! 
 How seldom would bachelors wive. 
 
 How plenty old maids would appear 
 Could dear old Agrippa contrive 
 
 To pass a few weeks with us here !
 
 208 
 
 ST. MAWGAN CHURCH AND 
 
 LANHERN NUNNERY", 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 The old mansion of Lanhern belonged to the 
 Lords Arundell of Wardour. It was given in 1794, 
 by Henry eighth Lord Arundell, as an asylum for a 
 convent of English Theresian nuns, who had mi- 
 grated from Antwerp in consequence of the invasion 
 of the French. The sisterhood, or rather their guc- 
 cessors, still continue secluded in the old and 
 lonely house now called the Lanhern nunnery. 
 
 It stands amid the sheltering boughs, 
 
 A place of peace, a place of rest, 
 Where the veiled virgin's hourly vows. 
 
 By prayer and penitence are blest. 
 The sunshine rests upon the walls, 
 
 More golden than the common day. 
 And there a stiller shadow falls, 
 
 Than rests on life's tumultuous way. 
 
 Alas ! why should this quiet place 
 Bring fancies of unrest to me ? 
 
 Why looks forth that beloved face, 
 I seem in every place to see ?
 
 ST. MAWGAN CHURCH AND 209 
 
 Ah, what may not those walls con- 
 ceal ! 
 
 The sunshine of that saintly shrine, 
 Might from its inmost depths reveal 
 
 Some spirit passionate as mine ; 
 
 Some one condemned in youth to part 
 
 From all that made her youth so 
 dear, 
 To listen to her beating heart 
 
 In shame — in solitude and fear ; 
 To know no hope before the grave ; 
 
 To fear there is no hope beyond ; 
 Yet scarcely dare of heaven to crave 
 
 Forgiveness for a faith too fond : 
 
 To feel the white and vestal veil 
 
 Grow wet and warm with worldly 
 tears ; 
 To pass the midnight watching pale. 
 
 Yet tremble when the day appears ; 
 Prostrate before the cross to kneel. 
 
 With eyes that may not look above • 
 How dare the dedicate to feel 
 
 The agony of earthly love ? 
 
 Oh I misery, for the young heart doom- 
 ed 
 To waste and weep its youth away, 
 14
 
 110 LANHERN NUNNERY. 
 
 To be within itself entombed 
 And desperate with the long decay 
 
 Yes, misery ! but there may be 
 A yet more desperate despair; 
 
 There is a love whose misery 
 
 Mocks all those cells may soothe and 
 share. 
 
 There the pale nun at least <!an keep 
 
 One treasured and unbroken dream; 
 The love for which she wakes to 
 weep, 
 Seems ever what it once could 
 seem. 
 She knows not time's uncharmingr 
 touch. 
 Destroying every early hue ; 
 The false ! she dreameth not of such ; 
 Her love is still the deep, the true. 
 
 Not so the love of common life, 
 
 'Tis coloured by the common air; 
 Its atmosphere with death is rife, 
 
 A moral pestilence is there. 
 Fevered — exacting — false and vain, 
 
 Like a disease it lingers on, 
 Though all that blest its first sweet 
 reign. 
 
 Its morning dew and light, are gone.
 
 etty's rover. 211 
 
 Such is the actual life of love, 
 
 Such is the love that I have known; 
 Unworthy of the heaven above, 
 
 Dust like the earth where it has 
 grown. 
 Ah ! better far alone to dwell, 
 
 Dreaming about the dearest past ; 
 And keeping, in the silent cell, 
 
 Life's best illusions to the last. 
 
 ETTY'S ROVER. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 Thou lovely and thou happy child, 
 
 Ah, how I envy thee ! 
 I should be glad to change our state, 
 
 If such a change might be. 
 
 And yet it is a lingering joy 
 
 To watch a thing so fair. 
 To think that in our weary life 
 
 Such pleasant moments are. 
 
 A little monarch thou art there. 
 
 And of a fairy realm. 
 Without a foe to overthrow, 
 
 A care to overwhelm.
 
 812 etty's rover. 
 
 Thy world is in thy owti glad will, 
 
 And in each fresh delight, 
 And in thy unused heart, which makes 
 
 Its own, its golden light. 
 
 With no misgivings in thy past, 
 
 Thy future with no fear ; 
 The present circles thee around, 
 
 An angel's atmosphere. 
 
 How little is the happiness 
 
 That will content a child ; 
 A favourite dog, a sunny fruit, 
 
 A blossom growing wild. 
 
 A word will fill the little heart 
 With pleasure and with pride ; 
 
 It is a harsh, a cruel thing. 
 That such can be denied. 
 
 And yet how many weary hours 
 Those joyous creatures know j 
 
 How much of sorrow and restraint 
 They to their elders owe ! 
 
 How much they suffer f'om our faults 
 How much from our mistakes ! 
 
 How often too mistaken zeal 
 An infant's misery makes !
 
 etty's rover. 213 
 
 We overrule, and overteach 
 
 We curb and we confine ; 
 And put the heart to school too soon, 
 
 To learn our narrow line. 
 
 No ; only taught by love to love. 
 Seems childhood's natural task; 
 
 Affection, gentleness, and hope, 
 Are all its brief years ask. 
 
 Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child, 
 With careless heart and eye ; 
 
 Enjoy those few bright hours which 
 now, 
 E'en now, are hurrying by. 
 
 And let the gazer on thy face 
 Grow glad with watching thee, 
 
 And better, kinder, — such, at least, 
 Its influence on me.
 
 214 
 
 THE ORPHAN BALLAD 
 
 SINGERS. 
 
 Oh, weary, weary are our feet, 
 
 And weary, weary is our way ; 
 Throufijh many a long and crowded 
 street. 
 
 We've wandered mournfully to-day, 
 My little sister, she is pale, 
 
 She is too tender and too young 
 To bear the autumn's sullen gale, 
 
 And all day long the child has sung. 
 
 She was our mother's favourite child, 
 
 Who loved her for her eyes of blue; 
 And she is dehcate and mild, 
 
 She cannot do what I can do. 
 She never met her father's eyes. 
 
 Although they were so like her 
 own ; 
 In some far distant sea he lies 
 
 A father to his child unknown. 
 
 The first time that she lisped his name 
 A little playful thing was she ; 
 
 How proud we were, — yet that night 
 came, 
 The tale how he had sunk at sea.
 
 ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS. 215 
 
 My mother never raised her head ; 
 
 How strange, how white, how cold 
 she grew ! 
 It was a broken heart, they said — 
 
 I wish our hearts were broken too. 
 
 We have no home, we have no friends ; 
 They said our home no more was 
 ours ; 
 Our cottage where the ash-tree benda, 
 The garden we had filled with 
 flowers ; 
 The sounding shells our father 
 brought. 
 That we might hear the sea at nome ; 
 Our bees, that in the summer wrought 
 The winter's golden honey-comb. 
 
 We wandered forth mid wind and 
 rain, 
 No sh-^lter from the open sky ; 
 
 I only wish to see again 
 My mother's grave, and rest, and 
 die. 
 
 Alas ! it is a weary thing, 
 To sing our ballads o'er and o'er ; 
 
 The songs we used at home to sing- 
 Alas, we have a home no more !
 
 216 
 
 CALDRON SNOUT, WESTMORE 
 LAND. 
 
 A PLACE of rugged rocks, adown whose 
 sides 
 The mountain torrent rushes, on 
 whose crags 
 The raven builds her nest, and tells 
 her young 
 Of former funeral feasts. 
 
 Long years have past since last I stood 
 
 Alone amid this mountain scene ; 
 Unlike the future which I dreamed, 
 
 How like my future it has been ! 
 A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds. 
 
 With showers in every passing 
 shade ; 
 How like the moral atmosphere. 
 
 Whose gloom my horoscope has 
 made! 
 
 I thought if yet my weary feet 
 Could rove my native hills again ; 
 
 A. world of feehng would revive, 
 Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain
 
 CALDRON SNOUT. 217 
 
 My early hopes, my early joys, 
 
 I dreamed those valleys would re- 
 store ; 
 
 I asked for childhood to return. 
 For childhood which returns no 
 
 Surely the scene itself is changed! 
 
 There did not always rest, as now, 
 That shadow in the valley's depth, 
 
 That gloom upon the mountain 
 brow. 
 Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt, 
 
 Like treasures in some fairy hold ; 
 And morning o'er the mountains shed. 
 
 Her kindling world of vapory gold. 
 
 Another season of the year 
 
 Is now upon the earth and me ; 
 Another spring will light these hills, 
 
 No other spring mine own may be ; 
 r must retune my unstrung heart, 
 
 i must awake the sleeping tomb, 
 I must recall the loved and lost, 
 
 Ere spring again for me could bloom
 
 218 
 
 MARDALE HEAD.* 
 
 Why should I seek those scenes a^in, the paft 
 Is on yon valley like a shroud ? 
 
 Weep for the love that fate forbids, 
 
 Yet love's unhoping on, 
 Though every light that once il 
 lumined 
 
 Its early path be gone. 
 
 Weep for the love that must resign 
 The heart's enchanted dream ; 
 
 And float, like some neglected bark, 
 Adown life's lonely stream. 
 
 Weep for the love these scenes recal.. 
 
 Like some enduring spell ; 
 It rests within the soul that loves 
 
 Too vainly and too vvell. 
 
 * Among the mountains which form tlie soutnern 
 boundary of Housewater is Mardalehead, a wild and 
 solitary region, wherein nature, working with a 
 master hand, seems to have produced the very beau 
 ideal of romantic grandeur and sublimity.
 
 IVY BRIDGE. 219 
 
 Weep for the breaking heart con- 
 demned 
 
 To see its youth pass by ; 
 Whose lot has been, in this cold world, 
 
 To dream, despair, and die. 
 
 IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 Oh, recall not the past, though this 
 valley be filled 
 With all we remember, and all we 
 regret ; 
 The flowers of its summer have long 
 been distilled, 
 The essence has perished : ah ! let 
 us forget. 
 What avails it to mourn over hours 
 that are gone, 
 O'er illusion? by youth, and by fan- 
 tasy nurst 
 Alas! of the few that are lingering, 
 none 
 Wear the light or the hues that en. 
 circled the first.
 
 220 IVY BRIDGE. 
 
 Alas for the spring time ! alas for our 
 youth ! 
 The grave has no slumber more 
 cold than the heart, 
 When, languid and darkened, it sinks 
 into truth. 
 And sees the sweet colours of morn- 
 ing depart. 
 Life still has its falsehoods to lure and 
 to leave, 
 But they cannot delude like the 
 earlier light ; 
 We know that the twilight encircles 
 the eve, 
 And sunset is only the rainbow of 
 night.
 
 221 
 
 THE ENGLISH BOY 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 " Go call thy sons ; instruct them what a debt 
 They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 
 To pay it, ty transmitting down entire 
 Those sacred rights to which themselves were 
 born." 
 
 Menaide. 
 
 Look from the ancient mountains 
 down, 
 My noble English boy ! 
 Thy country's fields around thee 
 gleam, 
 In sunlight and in joy. 
 
 Ages have roll'd since foeman's march 
 Pass'd o'er I'hat old firm sod ; 
 
 For well the land hath fealty held 
 To freedom and to God ! 
 
 Gaze proudly on, my English boy ! 
 
 And let thy kindling mind 
 Drink in the spirit of high thought, 
 
 From everv chainless wind.
 
 222 THE ENGLISH BOY. 
 
 There in the shadow of old Time 
 The halls beneath thee lie, 
 
 Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore 
 Our England's chivalry. 
 
 How bravely and how solemnly 
 They stand midst yoke and yew ! 
 
 Whence Cressy's yeomen haply 
 framed 
 The bow, in battle true. 
 
 And round their walls the good swords 
 hang, 
 Whose faith knew no alloy ; 
 And shields of knighthood pure from 
 stain 
 Gaze on, my English boy ! 
 
 Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 
 Gleams by the antique elm; 
 
 Or where the minster lifts the cross 
 High through the air's blue realm. 
 
 Martyrs have shower'd their free 
 heart's blood. 
 That England's prayer might rise, 
 From those grey fanes of thoughtful 
 years, 
 Unfetter'd to the skies.
 
 THE ENGLISH BOY. 223 
 
 Along their aisles, beneath their 
 trees, 
 
 This earth's most glorious dust, 
 Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, 
 
 Is laid in holy trust. 
 
 Gaze on — gaze farther yet, 
 
 My gallant English hoy ! 
 Yon blue seas bears thy country's 
 flag, 
 
 The billow's pride and joy. 
 
 Those waves in many a fight have 
 closed 
 
 Above her faithful dead ; 
 That red cross flag victoriously 
 
 Has floated o'er their bed. 
 
 They perish d — this green turf to 
 keep 
 
 By hostile tread unstained ; 
 These knightly halls inviolate, 
 
 Those churches unprofaned. 
 
 And high and clear their memories' 
 light 
 
 Along our shore is set; 
 ^nd many an answering beacon firw 
 
 Shall there be kindled yet!
 
 224 Nathan's kieve. 
 
 Lift up thy heart, my English boy ! 
 
 And pray like them to stand ; 
 Should God so summon thee, to guard 
 
 The altars of the land. 
 
 NATHAN'S KIEVE. 
 
 The name of a beautiful waterfall, situated in • 
 retired valley running up from the sea, between 
 Boscastle and Tintad^el, on the northern coast of 
 Cornwall. The spot is so sequestered, and the fall 
 80 concealed by overhanging rocks, that a stranger, 
 following the course of the stream up the glen, and 
 coming upon it unexpectedly, might, " %vith small 
 help from fancy," imagine himself the first dis- 
 coverer of a scene so solitary. 
 
 A STREAM, a lovely stream, eternally 
 Pouring wild music down the rocky 
 dell; 
 A breeze, a playful breeze, that lingers 
 nigh, 
 As loth to bid its ocean home fare- 
 well ; 
 Such voices breathed for aye in na- 
 ture's ear. 
 Like spirit's airy whispers, greet us 
 here.
 
 Nathan's kievk. 225 
 
 But far within the depths of yonder 
 
 nook, 
 Tangled with copse and matted o'er 
 
 with fern, 
 Lo! the glad waters of the sylvan 
 
 brook 
 Rush down the cliff, as from a 
 
 naiad's urn : 
 Sure 'tis some vision raised by wizard's 
 
 call, 
 The silvery crest of that lone water-fall. 
 
 Here, here to sit, and cherish many a 
 dream 
 Of ours that people memory's storied 
 cell ; 
 
 The ceaseless dash of Nathan's head- 
 long stream 
 The only voice to break each witch- 
 ing spell, 
 
 That gathers o'er the soul in such a 
 scene, 
 
 Musings of what may be, and what 
 has been. 
 
 Lovely, most lovely — human tread 
 profane 
 May scarce amid these unknown 
 shades intrude, 
 15
 
 226 NATHAN S KIEVE. 
 
 And nature spreads around her rude 
 
 domain, 
 A veil of deep and holy solitude ; 
 Wild haunt of golden visions, such as 
 
 fling 
 O'er fancy's realm their own bright 
 
 colouring. 
 
 Yes — there are thousand forms of 
 
 earth and sky 
 Hovering around, that oft at eventide, 
 That heavenly hour, when all is poesy, 
 Along their lov'd untrodden valley 
 
 glide ; 
 On high they wave their joyous 
 
 plumes, and weave 
 The mystic dance above yon foaming 
 
 Kieve. 
 
 Nor unremembered be the poet's 
 
 theme. 
 The beauty of that legendary tale 
 Of those, whose lives roli'd onwards 
 
 as a dream. 
 Those ancient two, the sisters of the 
 
 dale ; 
 Driven from their native hearth afar to 
 
 roam 
 Within those mouldering walls they 
 
 found a home.
 
 NATHAN'S KIEVE. 227 
 
 A home, but not of peace, the vigil 
 lone, 
 The prayer of agony, the fast severe, 
 
 For deeds of former years would fain 
 atone — 
 Mysterious deeds which none did 
 ever hear ; 
 
 Time passed — at length that fearful 
 penance closed. 
 
 The awful sisters in the grave re- 
 posed.* 
 
 * Immediately above the fall are the remains of a 
 small hut, which, as the legend runs, was tenanted 
 some centuries since by two females, who came 
 none could tell from whence, and spent the remain- 
 der of their lives in this lonely spot. There was a 
 mysterious dignity about them ; their very names 
 were unknown ; and their story is still related by the 
 peasants of the country with feelings of reverential
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT OVER 
 HER SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, my little boy, 
 No child have I on earth but thee ; 
 
 Last night thou wert a father's joy, 
 But now, alas ! oh, where is he ? 
 
 Methinks I see his manly form 
 Toss'd by each rude and boisterous 
 wave. 
 
 Till, underneath the raging storm. 
 He found the ocean's deepest grave. 
 
 And there unseen to mortal eye, 
 He takes his rest — sweet may it be ! 
 
 Wliile here a widow I must sigh. 
 And gaze with joyless heart on thee. 
 
 But there is One in heaven above. 
 The widow's husband and her joy. 
 
 Who, with his everlasting love. 
 Shall be thy father, O ray boy !
 
 229 
 LINES TO AN OLD OAK TREE. 
 
 BY JOHN JONES, ESQ. 
 
 How oft in childhood's happy hour 
 
 I've rested in thy shade, 
 More blest than in the brightest bow'r 
 
 That fancy ever made. 
 
 How oft I've watch'd the redd'ning 
 sun 
 
 Sink burning in the west. 
 And mark'd the birds as, one by one, 
 
 They sought thy boughs for rest 
 
 I knew not then of worldly care. 
 
 Or knev^' it but by name ; 
 I ask'd not with the great to share 
 
 Their riches or their fame. 
 
 But happy and content with thee, 
 
 IMy faithful dog, to roam, 
 I never thought my joys would flee, 
 
 Or I should leave my home. 
 
 But, ah ! how chang'd is all to me, 
 My faithful dog is dead ;
 
 230 TO AN OLD OAK TREE. 
 
 Companion of my youth, for thee 
 A kindly tear I shed. 
 
 Thou too hast felt, my old oak tree, 
 Time's fell destroying hand, 
 
 Blighted, withered, scathed like me 
 Thou still dost proudly stand. 
 
 And like to thee, I still have left 
 
 A leaf or two yet green ; 
 Too soon of all we'll be bereft, 
 
 Pluck'd by a hand unseen. 
 
 But still the ivy clings to thee, 
 And round thy rugged breast, 
 
 Entwines itself in constancy. 
 Despite of nature's waste. 
 
 While I alone the storm must brave. 
 
 And curl the lip at fate. 
 And sink with peasant to the grave, 
 
 The cold earth-worm my mate. 
 
 My birth-place too, my childhood's 
 home ! 
 
 To strangers it is gone. 
 And careless feet now reckless roam 
 
 Along the verdant lawn.
 
 TO AN OLD OAK TREE. 231 
 
 By Stranger's feet its halls are trod ; 
 
 They reck not of the past, 
 But on each rev'rend household god 
 
 Cold looks they careless cast. 
 
 No sweet associations rise 
 
 For them at mem'ry's call; 
 No early dear domestic ties, 
 
 Those scenes can e'er recall- 
 But dully floating down the stream 
 
 That bears us all away, 
 They seldom think of childhood's 
 dream 
 
 When life is in decay. 
 
 Perchance there are among them too, 
 Some, thoughtless, young, and gay. 
 
 As I was, twenty years ago. 
 When there I us'd to play. 
 
 Oh I may they never know the care 
 
 With which I am opprest; 
 But brightly may their lives still wear 
 
 Until they sink to rest.
 
 THE DYING. 
 
 BY MARY EMILY JACKSON. 
 
 Oh, mother, make my bed for me, 
 
 I'll ask it not again ; 
 Why are thy eyes so dim with tears ? 
 
 I would not give thee pain 
 
 Father, dear father, ere I die, 
 Draw near my couch of death. 
 
 And seal thy blessing, ere I yield 
 My last expiring breath. 
 
 Sister, stretch out thy trembling hand, 
 
 I feel I'm dying now ; 
 Wipe off those tear-drops from thy 
 eyes, 
 
 And smooth my burning brow. 
 
 Brother, breathe out thy last farewell. 
 
 And give thy parting kiss, 
 Ere my freed spirit takes its flight 
 
 To yon bright world of bliss. 
 
 Friends of my gay and joyous hours, 
 I've loved you deep and long.
 
 ALONE IN CROWDS, ETC. 233 
 
 Breathe out for me one parting prayer, 
 And sing one parting song. 
 
 Farewell ! but when I'm laid to rest, 
 
 Breathe not for me a sigh ; 
 Death comes ! it was a grief to live, 
 
 An endless bliss to die. 
 
 ALONE IN CROWDS TO 
 WANDER ON. 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Alone in crowds to wander on, 
 And feel that all the charm is gone, 
 Which voices dear and eyes beloved 
 Shed, round us once where'er we 
 
 roved ; 
 This, this the doom must be 
 Of all who've loved, and lived to see 
 The few bright things they thought 
 
 would stay 
 For ever near them die away. 
 
 Though fairer forms around us throng 
 Their smiles to others all belong
 
 234 ALONE IN CROWDS, ETC. 
 
 And what that light which dwells 
 
 alone 
 Round those the fond heart calls its 
 
 own. 
 Where, where the sunny brow ! 
 The long known voice — where are 
 
 they now ! 
 Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, — 
 The silence answers all too plain. 
 
 Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, 
 If all her art cannot call forth 
 One bliss like those we felt of old, 
 From lips now mute and eyes now 
 
 cold! 
 No, no — her spell is vain, — 
 As soon could she bring back again 
 Those eyes themselves from out the 
 
 grave. 
 As wake again one bliss they gave.
 
 235 
 DIRGE AT SEA. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave, 
 Red with life-blood from the brave; 
 Thou shall find a noble grave, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 Sleep ! the billowy field is won, 
 Proudly may the funeral gun, 
 Midst the hush, at set of sun, 
 Boom thy knell ! 
 
 Lonely, lonely is thy bed, 
 Never there may flower be shed, 
 Marble reared, — or brother's head 
 Bowed to weep. 
 
 Yet thy record on the sea. 
 Borne through battle high and free, 
 Long the red cross flag shall be. 
 Sleep ! O sleep !
 
 A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Still that last look is solemn — though 
 
 thy rays, 
 O sun I to-morrow will give back, 
 
 we know, 
 The joy to nature's heart. Yet 
 
 through the glow 
 Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our 
 
 gaze 
 Tracks thee with love half fearful ; 
 
 and in days 
 When earth too much adored thee, 
 
 what a swell 
 Of mournful passion, deepening mighty 
 
 lays, 
 Told how the dying bade thy light 
 
 farewell ; 
 O sun of Greece ! O glorious festal 
 
 sun! 
 Lost, lost ! for them thy golden hours 
 
 were done.
 
 WILLIAM THE CONaUEROR. 237 
 
 And darkness lay before them. 
 Happier far 
 Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels 
 
 enchained, 
 Not thus for thy last parting unsus- 
 tained, 
 Heirs of a purer day, with its un- 
 setting star. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE 
 CONQUEROR. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Lowly upon his bier 
 
 The royal conqueror lay ; 
 Baron and chief stood near, 
 
 Silent in war-array. 
 
 Down the long minster's aisle 
 Crowds, mutely gazing, stream'd. 
 
 Altar and tomb the while 
 Through mists of incense gleam'd. 
 
 And by the torch's blaze 
 The stately priest had said
 
 23« THE BURIAL OF 
 
 High words of power and praise 
 To the glory of the dead. 
 
 They lowered him, with the sound 
 
 Of requiems, to repose ; 
 When from the throngs around 
 
 A solemn voice arose : — 
 
 " Father ! forbear !" it cried ; 
 
 " In the holiest Name, forbear ! 
 He hath conquered regions wide, 
 
 But he shall not slumber there ! 
 
 " By the violated hearth 
 
 Which made way for yon proud 
 shrine : 
 By the harvests which this earth 
 
 Hath borne for me and mine : 
 
 " By the house e'en here o'erthrown, 
 On my brethren's native spot ; 
 
 Hence ! with his dark renown 
 Cumber our birth-place not ! 
 
 " Will my sire's u.nransom'd field, 
 O'er which your censers wave, 
 
 To the buried spoiler yield 
 Soft slumbers in the grave ?
 
 WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 239 
 
 "The tree before him fell, 
 
 Which we cherished many a year ; 
 But Its deep root yet shall swell, 
 
 And heave against his bier. 
 
 " The land that I have tilled 
 Hath yet its brooding breast 
 
 With my home's white ashes filled, 
 And it shall not give him rest ! 
 
 " Each pillar's massy bed 
 
 Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 
 Away I bestow your dead 
 
 Where no wrong against him cries." 
 
 — Shame glowed on each dark face 
 Of those proud and steel-girt men, 
 
 And they bought with gold a place 
 For their leader's dust e'en then. 
 
 A little earth for him 
 Whose banner flew so far ! 
 
 And a peasant's tale could dim 
 The name, a nation's star ! 
 
 One deep voice thus arose 
 
 From a heart which wrongs had 
 riven, — 
 Oh ! who shall number those 
 
 That were but heard in heaven?
 
 240 
 
 THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S 
 SONG. 
 
 BY BULWER. 
 
 Buy my flowers— O buy, I pray 
 
 The blind girl comes from afar ; 
 If the earth be as fair as I hear them 
 say, 
 
 These flowers her children are! 
 Do they her beauty keep ! 
 
 They are fresh from her lap, I 
 know; 
 For I caught them fast asleep 
 
 In her arms an hour ago, 
 With the air which is her breath — 
 Her soft and delicate breath — 
 
 Over them murmuring low ! 
 
 On their lips her sweet kiss lingers 
 
 yet, 
 And their cheeks with tender tears are 
 
 wet, 
 For she weeps — that gentle mother 
 
 weeps — 
 (As mom and night her watch she 
 
 keeps.
 
 BLIND flower-girl's SONG. 241 
 
 With a yearning heart and a passion- 
 ate care) 
 To see the young thing grow so fair ; 
 She weeps — for love she weeps, 
 And the dews are the tears she 
 weeps. 
 From the well of a mother's love ! 
 Ye have a world of light, 
 
 Where love in the lov'd rejoices; 
 But the bhnd girl's home is the house 
 of night, 
 And its beings are empty voices. 
 
 As one in the realms below, 
 I stand by the streams of woe ; 
 I hear the vain shadows glide, 
 I feel their soft breath at my side, 
 And I thirst the lov'd forms to see, 
 And I stretch my fond arms around, 
 And I catch but shapeless sound. 
 For the living are ghosts to me. 
 
 Come buy — come buy I — 
 Hark ! how the sweet things sigh, 
 (For they have a voice hke ours,) 
 " The breath of the blind girl closes 
 The leaves of the saddening roses — 
 We are tender, we sons of light, 
 We shrink from this child of night; 
 16
 
 242 THE CHANGED ONE. 
 
 From the grasp of the blind girl free 
 
 us ; 
 We yearn for the eyes that see us — 
 We are for night too gay. 
 In your eyes we behold the day" — 
 O buy — O buy the flowers ! 
 
 THE CHANGED ONE. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Sister ! since I met thee last, 
 O'er thy brow a change hath past 
 In the softness of thine eyes 
 Deep and still a shadow hes ; 
 From thy voice there thrills a tone 
 Never to thy childhood known ; 
 Through thy soul a storm hath mov'd— 
 Gentle sister, thou hast lov'd I 
 
 Yes, thy varying cheek hath caught 
 Hues too bright from troubled thought', 
 tar along the wandering stream 
 Thou art followed by a dream ; 
 In the woods and valleys lone 
 Music haunts thee not thine own ;
 
 THE mother's hope. 243 
 
 Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
 Sister, thou hast loved in vain I 
 
 Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 
 On my bosom pour that shower! 
 Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 
 Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
 Wring not forth one burning word, 
 Let thy heart no more be stirr'd I 
 Home alone can give thee rest — 
 Weep, sweet sister, on my breast! 
 
 THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 
 
 She was my idol. Night and day to 
 scan 
 
 The fine expansion in her form, and 
 mark 
 
 The unfolding mind, like vernal rose- 
 buds, start 
 
 To sudden beauty, was my chief de- 
 light. 
 
 To find her fairy footsteps following 
 me — 
 
 Her hand upon my garments — or her 
 lip
 
 244 THE mother's hope. 
 
 Long sealed to mine— and in the 
 
 watch of night 
 The quiet breath of innocence to 
 
 feel 
 Soft on my cheek — was such a full 
 
 content 
 Of happiness, as none but mothers 
 
 know. 
 Her voice was like some tiny harp that 
 
 yields 
 To the siight-finger'd breeze — and as it 
 
 held 
 Long converse with her doll, or kindly 
 
 soothed 
 Her meaning kitten, or with patient 
 
 care 
 Conn'd o'er her alphabet — but most of 
 
 all. 
 Its tender cadence in her evening 
 
 prayer, 
 Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal 
 
 tone. 
 Heard in sweet dreams. — 
 
 But now I sit alone, 
 Musing of her — and dew with mourn 
 
 ful tears 
 The little robes that once, with wo 
 
 man's pride
 
 THE MOTHERS HOPE. 245 
 
 I wrought, as if there was a need to 
 deck 
 
 What God had made so beautiful. I 
 start, 
 
 Half fancying from her empty crib 
 there comes 
 
 A restless sound — and breathes accus- 
 tom'd words — 
 
 " Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest" Then 
 I weep. 
 
 As though it were a sin to speak to 
 one 
 
 Whose home is with the angels — 
 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 And yet I wish 1 had not seen the 
 pang 
 
 That wrung her features, nor the ghast- 
 ly white 
 
 Settling around her lips. I would that 
 heaven 
 
 Had taken its own, like some trans- 
 planted flower. 
 
 Blooming in all its freshness. — 
 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Be still, my heart ! — what could a mo- 
 ther's prayer. 
 
 In all its wildest ectasy of hope, 
 
 Ask for its darling like the bliss of 
 heaven ?
 
 346 
 THE DYING SOLDIER.* 
 
 BY MISS PARDOE. 
 
 Raise yet again my sinking head, 
 
 And tell me of the fight ; 
 I know my heart's best blood is shed, 
 
 And quenched my manhood's might. 
 Yet, comrade, yet I fain would hear, 
 
 Ere cold in death I lie, 
 The shout come pealing on my ear 
 
 Of Britain's victory ! 
 
 I see, I see a host draw nigh : 
 
 They're British who advance ! 
 And those who fly — in panic fly — 
 
 They are the troops of France ! 
 Oh I tell me that I do not rave — 
 
 Whisper those words again — 
 And I shall sink into the grave 
 
 Without one groan of pain. 
 
 I thank thee for the glorious tale : 
 I knew it must be so — 
 
 • ■Written on reading the death of Sir John 
 Moore at Corunna.
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 2¥i 
 
 or when did British soldiers fail 
 
 Before a foreign foe ? 
 , n glory I lay down my head, 
 
 'Klid shouts of victory ! 
 Noi, not in vain my blood was shed— » 
 
 Now, comrade, let me die ! 
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY.* 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 Art thou some spirit from that blisa- 
 ful land 
 Where fever never bums, nor hearts 
 are riven ? 
 That soothing smile, tho;ie accents 
 ever bland, 
 Say, were they born of earth, or 
 caught from heaven ? 
 
 Art thou some seraph-minister of grace 
 Whose glorious mission in tlie skies 
 has birth ? 
 
 • Written after meeting a Sister of Cnarrfy id the 
 Hotel Dieu.
 
 248 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 An angel, sure, in bearing, form, and 
 face : 
 All but thy tears— and they belong 
 to earth I 
 
 Oh, ne'er did beauty in ner loftiest pride 
 A splendour boast that may compare 
 with thine; 
 Thus bending low yon sufferer's bed 
 beside, 
 Thy graces mortal, but thy cares 
 divine. 
 
 A woman, filled with all a woman's 
 fears. 
 Yet strong to wrestle with despair 
 and woe ; 
 A thing of softest smiles and tenderest 
 tears. 
 That once would tremble did a 
 breeze but blow. 
 
 Leaving, perchance, some gay and 
 happy home. 
 Music's rich tones, the rose's odo- 
 rous breath. 
 Throughout the crowded lazar-house 
 to roam. 
 And pierce the haunts of pestilence 
 and death.
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 249 
 
 For ever flitting with a noiseless tread, 
 As loth to break the pain-worn 
 slumberer's rest; 
 To smooth the pillow, raise the droop- 
 i.ig head, 
 And pour thy balsam on the bleed- 
 ing breast. 
 
 Or, 'mid each calmer interval of pain. 
 The Christian's hope and promis'd 
 boon to show ; 
 And when all human anodynes are 
 vain. 
 To nerve the bosom for its final 
 throe. 
 
 To lead the thoughts from harrownig 
 scenes like this. 
 To that bless'd shore where sin and 
 sorrow cease, — 
 To imp the flagging soul for realms of 
 bliss, 
 And bid the world-worn wanderer 
 part in peace. 
 
 A creature vowed to serve both God 
 and man. 
 No narrow aims thy cherished carea 
 control :
 
 250 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 Thou dost all faith, love, pity, watch- 
 ing can, 
 To heal the body and to save the soul. 
 
 No matter who, so he thy service 
 need ; 
 No matter what the suppliant's claim 
 may be; 
 Thou dost not ask his country or his 
 creed ; 
 To know he suffers is enough forthee. 
 
 Not even from guilt dost thou thine 
 aid withhold. 
 Whose Master bled a sinful world 
 to save : 
 Fearless in faith, in conscious virtue 
 bold, 
 'Tis thine the sick blasphemer's 
 couch to brave : 
 
 To note the anguish of despairing 
 crime, 
 Lash the wild scorpions of the soul 
 within ; 
 Those writhings fierce, those agonies 
 sublime. 
 That seem from conscience half 
 their force to win :
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 251 
 
 Then glide before that dark demo- 
 niac's sight, 
 The cup of healing in thy gentle 
 hand, — 
 A woman strengthened with an angel's 
 might, 
 The storm of pain and passion to 
 command. 
 
 To calm the throb bings of his fevered 
 brow ; 
 Cool his parched lips, his bursting 
 wounds to bind ; — 
 Then with deep faith before the cross 
 to bow 
 For power to still the tumult of his 
 mind. 
 
 And it is given : the softliest whisper- 
 ed word 
 Now falls like oil on that tempes- 
 tuous sea ; 
 llird as his heart may seem, there's 
 still a chord 
 Once touched, his ravings all are 
 stilled by thee. 
 
 see thee stand, and mark that won- 
 drous change 
 With more than mortal triumph in 
 thine eye ;
 
 252 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 Then blessed and blessing, turn with 
 tears to range 
 Where other claimants on thy kind- 
 ness lie. 
 
 By many a faint and feeble murmur 
 led, 
 A willing slave where'er the 
 wretched call ; 
 I see thee softly flit from bed to bed. 
 Each wish forestalling, bearing balm 
 to all. 
 
 Performing humblest offices of love 
 For such as know no human love 
 beside, — 
 Still on thy healing way in mercy 
 move. 
 Daughter of pity, thus for ever 
 glide ! 
 
 Not thine the hollow zeal that loves to 
 climb 
 When spurious faith her ensign 
 rears on high ; 
 That seeks the heathen of some far off 
 clime, 
 But leaves the wretched of its own 
 to die.
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 253 
 
 Mercy — " twice blessed," in him who 
 gives and takes — 
 Is thine, with all its attributes re- 
 fined ; 
 Thy nobler love no nice distinction 
 makes, 
 But heals the flesh, and then informs 
 the mind. 
 
 All peace to thee, and thy devoted 
 band, 
 Vowed to earth's gloomy " family of 
 pain ;" 
 Whose worth could even the unwill- 
 ing awe command 
 Of blood-stain'd men who owned no 
 other chain ; 
 
 Long may ye live the cherished badge 
 to wear 
 Whose snow-white folds might dig- 
 nify a queen, 
 To fainting souls your cup of life to 
 bear, 
 And be the angels ye have ever 
 been!
 
 254 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 She stood beside the altar, but 1 saw 
 
 her cheek was pale, 
 When the summer breezes wafted 
 
 back her snow-white bridal veil ; 
 And listlessly she gazed upon the 
 
 bright throng gather'd there, 
 As though in all that glitt'ring scene 
 
 her heart had little share. 
 
 Her youthful form was such an one as 
 
 painters love to trace, 
 With raven hair, and deep dark eyes, 
 
 and steps so full of grace ; 
 A flow'r just op'ning into bloom, and 
 
 yet a blight was there, 
 And on her gentle brow she bore the 
 
 marks of woe and care. 
 
 The bridegroom's mein was stern and 
 dark, and with an air of pride 
 
 He rais'd the trembling hand of that 
 young victim at his side ;
 
 THE BRIDAL. 255 
 
 And prouder still the father look'd, as 
 
 near he took his stand, 
 And hail'd his lovely daughter there — 
 
 a peeress of the land ! 
 
 O what a glance she gave hhn then ! 
 
 it was so full of woe, 
 There needed not the power of words 
 
 her wretchedness to show ; 
 But quickly, with a quiv'ring lip and 
 
 one deep mournful sigh. 
 She turn'd away to hide the tears that 
 
 gather'd in her eye. 
 
 Full brightly flash'd the costiy gems 
 
 amidst her glossy hair, 
 And oriental pearls were twin'd 
 
 around her arms so fair; 
 But love will not he bought and sold — 
 
 ye may bring golden chains, 
 And hearts ye fam would fetter thus 
 
 still mock at all your pains. 
 
 And well do I remember now a frank 
 
 and gallant youth. 
 Who pledg'd unto that lovely one a 
 
 vow of endless truth ; 
 But their fond dream of tenderness full 
 
 soon has pass'd away. 
 And hopes that once seeni'd fresh and 
 
 bright have turn'd unto decay.
 
 256 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Heav'n help thee, noble lady I for full 
 
 bitter it will be 
 When he thou lovest shall return, but 
 
 not return for thee ; 
 And thou must deck thy face in smiles, 
 
 and strive to seem at peace, 
 Albeit the pangs that rend thine heart 
 
 will never, never cease. 
 
 O thou hast leam'd that happiness on 
 
 earth is never known, 
 But in the azure courts of heav'n it 
 
 flourishes alone ; 
 And ere its ever-verdant leaves can 
 
 greet the weary eye, 
 We must toil through a wilderness, and 
 
 then lie down to die I 
 
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