We fear not now, we fear not!

Though the way through darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow them, Our own familiar friends!

THE BREEZE FROM LAND.

They call us with a voice divine
Back to our early love,

Our vows of youth at many a shrine
Whence far and soon we rove:
-Welcome, high thought and holy strain,
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!

"As when to them who sail

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore

Of Araby the Blest; with such delay

Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league, Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. Paradise Lost.

Joy is upon the lonely seas,

When Indian forests pour Forth to the billow and the breeze

Their fragrance from the shore; Joy, when the soft air's glowing sigh Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep

Where far away the jasmines dwell,

And where the myrrh-trees weep! Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, Are tidings of the citron's home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, 'midst the waves to greet
The fair earth's messengers,
That woo him, from the mournful main,
Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
Of golden-fruited shade;

Across his lone ship's wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring!

And oh! ye masters of the lay!

Come not e'en thus your songs, 'I'nat meet us on life's weary way

Amidst her toiling throngs? Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear A current of celestial air!

Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part,

Their tones are of the world which time

Sears not within the heart; They tell us of the living light In its green places ever bright.

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seemed but pictured glooms—a hidden rill,
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs
down,

And steeped the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,

A tale of Palestine.t-Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine-brightly free,
On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood pigeon.

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell,
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong
On my chained soul-'t was not the leaves I heard;
-A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred,
Through its proud floating folds-'t was not the
brook,

Singing in secret through its grassy glen-
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook
The burning air.-Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees.-Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out,
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious
hue

Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue; And harps were there-I heard their sounding strings,

As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings

Written immediately after reading the "Remarks on the Character and Writings of Milton," in the Christian Examiner.

↑ The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.

HUSH! 't is a holy hour-the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night-in prayer.

Gaze on,-'t is lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek, |
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,|
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
-Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts!—though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her wo!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sumless riches, from Affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to fird them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

THE INVOCATION.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O WANDERER! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for awhile, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;

And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmixed with aught of meaner tone,
Here nature's voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around,
Reverberate each awful sound;

That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies:
Soothed by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint, low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent wo?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth to slumber with the dead?
Oh! pause awhile-the world disown,
And dwell with nature's self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul's departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o'er,
Beyond her magic to restore;

Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal,
And sooth the wounded heart they can not heal.

He went, with his noble heart unworn, And pure, and high,

An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, Only to die!

He went with the Lyre, whose lofty tone Beneath his hand

Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone, And his Father-land.

And with all his glorious feelings yet

In their first glow,

Like a southern stream that no frost hath met To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,

And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought,
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful-beautiful and bright,
In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride!

INVOCATION.

HUSHED is the world in night and sleep, Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep,

Were music's faintest breath. Descend, bright Visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals past,
Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign,

And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh! bear your softest balm to those,
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead,
To them that world of peace disclose,

Where the bright soul is fled:
Where Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.

Or to his loved, his distant land,
On your light wings the exile bear;
To feel once more his heart expand,
In his own genial mountain-air;

Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet.

But oh! with Fancy's brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard's repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!

And waft his spirit to its native skies,
Who finds no charms in life's realities.

BRAVE Spirit! mourned with fond regret,
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon,
Oh! who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon?

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind,
Which marked and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies withered on thy bier.

'The soldier's death hath been thy doom,
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb

Might Fate have reared for thee. Thou shouldst have died, O high-souled chief! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevailed o'er grief,

We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior's grave-
When shall affection weep again

So proudly o'er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene,
Or on Vittoria's blood-red plain,

Meet had thy death-bed been.

We mourn not that a hero's life,

Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died 'midst conquered foes!

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame
In that last moment cheered thee not)
Left Glory's isle another name,
That ne'er may be forgot:

And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear,
And long may England mourn a son
Without reproach or fear.

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H-Y E-LL-S.

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO,

"Happy are they who die in their youth, when their r nown is around them." Ossian.

WEEP'ST thou for him, whose doom was sealed
On England's proudest battle-field?

For him, the lion-heart, who died,
In victory's fall, resistless tide?
Oh! mourn him not,

By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour's son,
No brighter lot.

He heard his band's exulting cry,
He saw the vanquished eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame,
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name,
That nought shall dim-
No cloud obscured his glory's day,
It saw no twilight of decay-
Weep not for him!

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh! proudly should the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell-

In that dread hour,
When England, 'midst the battle-storm,
Th' avenging angel-reared her forin
In tenfold power.

Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star,
The victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has owned thy fame:
And oh! like his approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior's fame?