Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's-the woo
Their passion breathes-the desolately deep!
That sound in Heaven-oh! image then the flow
Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weep-
No more!

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,

To waste the untold riches of the heart

No more!
Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn
For human love*-and never quench the thirst,
To pour the soul out, winning no return,
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed-

No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead;
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fled-

No more!

Words of triumphant music-bear we on

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn in joy ;-to struggle, to despair-
No more!

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.
WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend
That will not fail me in his love and worth,
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?
Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I love the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead.
But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust,
Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart;
Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust,
And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart!

PASSING AWAY.

"Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains.

Ir is written on the rose,

In its glory's full array—

"Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j'aime," was a mounful expression of Madame de Staël's.

Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's dyes-

"Passing away."

It is written on the trees,

As their young leaves glistening play
And on brighter things than these

It is written on the brow

Passing away."

279

THE ANGLER.*

"I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise

I with my angle would rejoice ;

*

And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.”—Isaac Walton.

THOU that hast loved so long and well

The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,

Shedding forth tender gleams;

This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled Death's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric Watts.

And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead :

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;

'Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is fill'd with summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sige,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;

If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green ;

Then, lover of the silent hour,

By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;

And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

“Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!

I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!

"Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief-
Bid her a long farewell!

Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief-
Thou comest with me to dwell!

Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep
Thy steed o'er the breezy hill;

But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill !”

SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

"Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death!
And is thy day so near?

Then on the field shall my life's last breath
Mingle with victory's cheer!

"Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note,
Above me as I die!

And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.

High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall,-
Death, death! I fear thee not!"

"Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart,

But I can bend its pride!

How should'st thou know that thy soul will part
In the hour of victory's tide?

"It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,
That I shall make thee mine;

It may be lone on the desert sands,
Where men for fountains pine!

"It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some deep Paynim hold;-

I have slow dull steps and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold!"

"Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest,
If this indeed must be:

But the Cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!

"Sound, clarion, sound!—for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine;
I bow my soul to the will of Heaven,
Oh Death!—and not to thine!"

281

SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL.

OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back my own to me;

For if in thine I have no part,

Why should mine dwell with thee?*

Yet no! this mournful love of mine,

I will not from me cast;

Let me but dream 'twill win me thine,
By its deep truth at last!

• The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the Ger

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
-Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

TO THE

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LA MENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.

"Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

When grief's full heart is fed by fame."-Byron.

THOU should'st have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with the ancestral trophies of thy race;
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread,
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighty dead!
Yet to thy name a noble rite was given,

weep,

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone Thy childhood dwells-whose thoughts a record keep, Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; Of all thine early grace and gentle worthA vernal promise, faded now from earth! But a bright memory claims a proud regretA lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet, Whose soul can number with love's holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

I AM free!--I have burst through my galling chain,
The life of young eagles is mine again;

I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,
I may rove where the wind roves-my path is free!
The streams dash in joy down the summer hill,
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will,