Peace and Quieturss.

Peace is the precious atmosphere I breathe;
And my calm mind goes to her dewy bower,
A trellis rare of fragrant thoughts to wreathe,
Mingling the scents and tints of every flower:
For pity, vex her not; those inner joys

That bless her in this consecrated hour,
Start and away, like plovers, at a noise,
Sensitive, timorous :-O do not scare

My happy fancies, lest the flock take wing, Fly to the wilderness and perish there! For I have secret luxuries, that bring Gladness and brightness to mine eyes and heart, Memory, and Hope, and keen Imagining, Sweet thoughts and peaceful, never to depart.

Then give me Silence; for my spirit is rare,
Of delicate edge and tender: when I think,
I rear aloft a mental fabric fair;

But soon as words come hurtling on the air,
Down to this dust my ruin'd fancies sink:
Look you! on yonder Alp's precipitous brink
An avalanche is tottering;-
;-one breath

Loosens an icy chain;-it falls,-it falls,
Filling the buried glens and glades with death!
Or as, when on the mountain's granite walls
The hunter spies a chamois,-hush! be calm,
A word will scare it,-even so, my Mind
Creative, energizing, seeks the balm
Of Quiet Solitude and Peace combined.

The Early Gallop.

(Written in the saddle, on the crown of my hat.)

At five on a dewy morning,

Before the blazing day,

To be up and off on a high-mettled horse
Over the hills away,-

To drink the rich sweet breath of the gorse
And bathe in the breeze of the Downs,
Ha! man, if you can, match bliss like this.
In all the joys of towns!

With glad and grateful tongue to join

The lark at his matin hymn,

And thence on faith's own wing to spring

And sing with Cherubim!

To pray from a deep and tender heart,

With all things praying anew,

The birds and the bees, and the whispering trees, And heather bedropt with dew,

To be one with those early worshippers

And pour the carol too!

Then, off again with a slacken'd rein,

And a bounding heart within,
To dash at a gallop over the plain,
Health's golden cup to win!

This, this is the race for gain and grace
Richer than vases and crowns;

And

you that boast your pleasures the most Amid the steam of towns,

Come, taste true bliss in a morning like this,
Galloping over the Downs!

Ascot:

JUNE 3, 1847-WHEN HERO WON. Modern Olympia! shorn of all their prideThe patriot spirit, and unlucred praiseThou art a type of these degenerate days, When love of simple honour all hath died; Oh dusty, gay, and eager multitude,

Agape for gold-No! do not thus condemn, For hundreds here are innocent, and good,

And young, and fair, among-but not of-them; And hundreds more enjoy with gratitude This well-earn'd holiday, so bright and green : Do not condemn! it is a stirring scene, Though vanity and folly fill it up:

Look, how the mettled racers please the Queen! Ha! brave John Day-a Hero wins the cup!

Life.

A busy dream, forgotten ere it fades,

A vapour, melting into air away,

Vain hopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades, A chequer'd labyrinth of night and day,

This is our life; a rapid surgy flood

Where each wave hunts its fellow; on they press; To-day is yesterday, and hope's young bud

Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness: Still on they press, and we are borne along,

Forgetting and forgotten, trampling down
The living and the dead in that fierce throng,

With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown,
And little care for others' right or wrong,
So we in iron selfishness stand strong.

Waterloo.

A BALLAD FOR THE SOLDIER.

Thermopylae and Cannæ

Were glorious fields of yore, Leonidas and Hannibal

Right famous evermore;

But we can claim a nobler name
A field more glorious too,
The chief who thus achieved for us
Victorious Waterloo.

Let others boast of Cæsar's host
Led on by Cæsar's skill,

And how fierce Attila could rout,
And Alaric could kill,—
But we-right well, O hear me tell
What British troops can do,
When marshall'd by a Wellington
To win a Waterloo !

O for a Pindar's harp to tune
The triumphs of that day!
O for a Homer's pictured words
To paint the fearful fray!-
Alas, my tongue and harp illstrung

In feeble tones and few

Hath little skill-yet right good-will To sing of Waterloo.

Then gather round, my comrades,

And hear a soldier tell

How full of honour was the day

When every man did well!

And though a soldier's speech be rough,

His heart is hot and true

While thus he tells of Wellington

At hard-fought Waterloo.

Sublimely calm, our iron Duke,
A lion in his lair,

Waited and watch'd with sleepless eye
To see what France would dare,
Nor deign'd to stir from Brussels
Until he surely knew

The foe was rushing on his fate

At chosen Waterloo.

What? should the hunter waste his strength

Nor hold his good hounds back Before he knows they near the foes And open on the track?

No: let "surprise" blight Frenchman's eyes,

For truly they shall rue

The giant skill that, stern and still,

Drew them to Waterloo !

Hotly the couriers gallop up

To Richmond's festive scene,Alone, alone the chieftain stood Undaunted and serene;

Ready, ready, staunch and steady,—

And forth the orders flew

That march'd us off to Quatre Bras
And whelming Waterloo.