.

Like sun-lit waters o'er his mind, and gave
The waste the welcome freshness of the wave.

VI.
There, as a river in its hidden course,
Mighty and secret thro' his spirit flow'd
The inspirations none but God might see,
The cave their channel, and the rock their source,
But rolling on to Immortality.--
Old-blind-deserted—lone amid the crowd-
No hope-save those of heaven-upon the earth,
Amid the wrecks of Freedom only free,
Cold-rapt-estrang'd amid that courtly mirth
Where Pleasure lent the veil to Tyranny,
He stood-like some gray Column far away
From life—and crumbling in its proud decay-
There wildest flowerets bloom--and nightly there
Wails with mysterious voice the wandering Air-
Amid the stars—the dews—the eternal hills-
And the far voices of the dashing rills-
Amid the haunted darkness of the night
When earth and heaven are mingled in their might,
It stands begirt with each and looks on high
Thro' Shade and Cloud to commune with the Sky.

*

*

务

a

Beneath a church's chancel there were laid
A great Man's bones,--and when the crowd was gone,
An aged woman, in black robes arrayed,
Lingered and wept beside the holy stone.
None knew her name, or land; her voice was sweet,
With the strange music of a foreign tongue:
Thrice on that spot her bending form they meet,
Thrice on that stone are freshest garlands hung.
On the fourth day she came not; and the wreath,
Look'd dim and withered from its odorous breath;
And if I err not wholly, on that day,
A soul that loved till death, had passed away!

THE END OF MILTON.

ON THE VANITY OF SMALL SUCCESSES

Ergo hominum genus incassum frustráque laborat
Semper, et in curis consumit inanibus ævum.

LUCRET. Lib. 5, 1. 1429.

a

SICK, wearied, worn; the harsh Ixion wheel

Within the heart shall have a moment's rest; And thoughts—deep thoughts, I would but rarely feel,

Shall not be now repress’d. Out on this curse of earth! we toil-we yearn,

We coil and shrivel the smooth heart with care; We make each hour a task-And our return ?

Go-ask our tombs-'t is there!

a

O God, that from this small and wizard ring

The pent but all-impatient soul could strain ! Lo! round the air—within the exulting wing

Why this eternal chain ?

We see-we feel—we pant—and we aspire,

Ay; for one hour we dream we have arisen ; Earth fades below-we wake

-behold the mire, And grating of our prison !

Oh! that our youth had dream'd to what an urn

Of dust our quick and high desires would shrink ! We stand upon the beach and ask return,

For barks ordained to sink !

There's not one plank on which

freight an aim Purer than aught by life's coarse natures sought, Which the harsh sea ingulfs not :-can we blame

Those who adventure naught?

But in a calm and chill philosophy

Suppress within them each more vague desire; For them no half-felt feelings pant and sigh;

No unfledg'd hopes expire !

Mother of Fate-primeval Night-thine old

And unvex'd oracles are round me still ; The sybil Stars, and She who lost her cold

Name on the Carian Hill !

Say thou,- for in thy weird and demon homes

Thou shroud'st the spectres of departed lore, Dread Egypt's mysteries, and the mouldering tomes,

From which the Samian bore

The treasure of his doctrine !-All that glow'd

Out from the heart of man in ages gone, Like perish'd stars into thy black abode,

Without a dirge have wonne !

Say—boots our labour ? Were it not more wise

To drink Lise's tide unwitting where it flows, Renounce the high-sould toil, and only prize

The Cnidian vine and rose !

True, for some few on whom her slavish smile,

Fame—the false Lais of the doting sageBestows—there may be somewhat to beguile

Youth's travail into Age!

The laurel lulls the aching brow it decks;

And the loud pæäns of the gazing horde,
As speeds our bark among surrounding wrecks,

Bring no disdained reward.

But here, among the dense and struggling herd,
For me no proud success and glory wait;
he wronging judgment and the venomed word,

The Envy and the Hate

Envy and Hate !—for what ?—for boons so slight,

That I could gnaw my heart that mine they are, Did I not know that proud heart's baffled flight

Sought meeds how different far!

O Night !-my wood, and won, and earliest friend,

Was it for this my soul I shaped and bowed, And from my dreams' Olympus did descend

To the self-vassall'd crowd?

Seeking---nor yet with vulgar wish-to wield

Arms coldly lov'd—but in a cause of RightContent for that-light hours and love to yield,

Was it for this--sweet Night ?

Thou answerest not-but round thee, lo! the clouds

Are darkening into ire—the Moon is gone, And the ghost stars lie wan within their shrouds,

The storm sweeps labouring on!

Shine out-shine out, my true and steadfast soul

My answer and my solace come from thee! Round earth's low heaven—the shade, the storm may roll,

Thou art a Heaven to me!

Foes--and Life's baffled ends—the hydra birth

Of cares—upon thy front can stamp no frown, But on the shifts and phantoms of the earth

Thou with a smile look'st down!

TO JULIET.

THE VINDICATION OF SILENCE.

WHEN heavens are bright, how stilly glide

The waters to the lulling air!
I feel THEE on my heart's deep tide-

How can I break the silence there?

ON FOREBODINGS.

What are ye, haggard and all ghastly warnings-
Ye moral wraiths of the contemning soul?
Ye glide away like clouds beneath our scornings,
But heavy, dark, and mournful, back ye roll.
Without a cause the heart beats high and quick,
And the blest breath grows labour-fraught and thick.

What are ye ?-Phantoms of the brain ?—The crude
And half-begot chimæras that arise
From our most earthly members, and intrude
A loathly shadow on our mental eyes?
Wan nightmares of drows'd thought ?—the goblin banes
That steam and flit from the o'erpamper'd veins ?

What! can these seerlike and unearthly shapes
Of Thought be fathered thus ?—And can a crumb
An incoct atom, kindle that which apes
A demon's horror--and can strike us dumb-
Appal us to the centre of our clay-
And shake the Spirit on her throne ?-Away!

What! to these wretched wants must we fulfil
A slavery so subjected and entire,
Bearing a devil in ourselves—at will
To mock the Angel Thought that would aspire
Out from this nether cell ?--to laugh to scorn
The
very

aims for which all thought was born ?

Can we not hold ev'n this most lean and poor
Pittance of sense, but that to every

heat
And frailty of the flesh, we must endure
To pare and pawn the dowry? and complete
All degradation by the gibe and guile
Of the worm's prey, which rots the very