TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep,
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names,
The very sweetest fancy calls or frames,

When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear bosom child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering: Balm, that tames
All anguish Saint, that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone-
I, surely not a man ungentle made-
Call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is crost!
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd,
Still last to come when thou art wanted most.

WORDSWORTH.

THE MUSE.

If thou would'st woo the Muse, seek out a tomb, Round which the loud autumnal winds are sweeping, While Night's dank dews unwholesome weeds are steeping,

And all is dark and drear,-for joy no room,

For hope no ray! both scene and season doom

The mind to melancholy musings! Sleeping
Within that ruined place, where once loud weeping
Was heard, now far from malice and the boom

Of strife, lies ONE whom life perchance did gird
With chains of roses; or perhaps time's slope
For him was downward ever! Now, the bird
Of night his requiem hoots,-no paltry trope

From flatt'rer base repeats his worth! A grand And mystic school is this, the POET-MIND to expand!

ANON.

FAME.

WHY do we love thee, Fame? thou art not sweet;
If sweetness dwell with softness and repose;
Thou art not fair, if beauty be replete

With peace and tenderness, and ease from woes;
Thou art not faithful, for thy power and flame
To fierce extremes the maddening votary urge;
And oft the winds that should his bliss proclaim,
Swell but the chorus of his funeral dirge :
Yet we do love thee-love thee, till the blood
Wasted for thee, forsakes the heart, thy shrine;
Till happiness is past, and toil withstood,
And life itself poured idly forth—for thine
Is that mysterious witchery that beguiles
The soul it stabs, and murders while it smiles,

HENRY NEELE.

AFTER-FAME.

WHEN dead is all the vigour of the fame,
And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise
May issue the desponding sprite to raise :
But weakly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame;
Empty we deem the echo of a name :
Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays;
Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze;

Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim;
Thus strange is fate:-we meet the hollow cheer,
When struck by age the cold, insensate ear
No more with trembling ecstasy can hear.
But yet one thought a lasting joy can give
That we, as not for self alone we live,

To others bore the boon we would from them receive!

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

CHARITY.

SWEET mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor old man! and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father, throw this away, this tattered vest

That mocks thy shivering; take my garment; use A young man's arm. I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Vara, too, shall tend thee, like a child;

And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not scowl, the Galilean mild,

Who met the lazar turn'd from rich man's doors,
And called him friend, and wept upon his sores.

COLERIDGE.