Lines Inscribed to the Rev. W. Tilson Marsh, on his Resigna-

tion of the Pastoral Office of St. Nicholas, Warwick ..

148

ZULEIKA.

"I ask no idle, worldly fame,
Mine is a higher, holier aim,
That bids me hope I yet may claim
The praises of the good and wise,

The friendship of the few I prize."

MISS G. Bennet.

"Oh, woman, there is nought of happiness

On earth for thee, save in the 'NARROW WAY.'"

My Lyre, my much-loved Lyre, how strong the spell
Which binds my soul in its despair to thee!
To thy wild strains I may not bid farewell;
Thou art a solace in lone hours to me!

I woo thee now; and though my simple lay
Wins me not men's applause, nor vain renown,

I seek a higher mandate to obey,

And in thy dreams, fair Poesy, my sorrows drown.

B

Though mine hath been a sad and chequered lot,
And in its wildest, weakest, darkest mood,
My spirit ev'n thy soothings hath forgot,

Nor saw one ray to cheer my solitude,
Those hours are past; and now I seek to gain

(Those quenchless yearnings, not destroyed-subdued) A power my falt'ring nature to sustain,

A nerve my fate to bear with calmness, fortitude.

Then hence, away, ye visions of the past,

Let higher hopes and holier thoughts inspire! To winds and waves be all thy vain dreams cast; Alone the Poet's hope, the Minstrel's fire, Shall prompt the burning lay!—the high desire My ardent heart shall lay upon thy shrine, Its deep devotion-and round thee, my Lyre, With an impassioned zeal Fame's deathless laurels twine.

And yet I heed not but for thee the wreath
Which e'er must bind an aching-lonely brow.
In deserts wild, lone dell, or distant heath,
Thou couldst respond as softly to my vow;
But, and if one green leaf my verse obtain,

I will not spurn, but, like the faithful dove,
I'll bear it to my ark of rest again,

An earnest of reward more pure, more sweet, above.

Come, then, my loved harp, to embowering shades
I'll bear thee, to awake thy music wild,
Where no rude step the hallowed calm invades,
But nature rears her offspring fair and mild;
Where viewless beings wave the mystic wand,

And smiling, greet the Poet's gifted strain;
I'll touch thy trembling strings, with ardour fond,
Thy unaspiring melodies nought shall restrain.

My song

shall tell of one, who from her birth

Had been of wayward destiny the sport,
No household joys endeared the social hearth;
A lonely outcast, most she loved to court
The silent shade, and ev'n the forest wild,

With tangled shrubs and rank weeds overgrown,

To soothe the passions of stern Sorrow's child

A nameless charm possessed; the wild winds' restless moan

Harmonized with her spirit's lofty tone,

Which, brooding o'er her wrongs, untamed and free Sought the far solitudes, where GOD alone

Approved her heart's untutored melody;

Her dark eye with an eager

lustre shone

Too bright for health, content, or happiness;

And, oh! the one red spot her cheek upon

Whispered of dreamless sleep-the grave's dark, drear abyss.