In the still sepulchre of my own mind,
Itself imperishable : ah! that word,
Like the archangel's trumpet wakes me up
To deathless resurrection. Heaven and earth
Shall pass away, but that which thinks within me
Must think for ever; that which feels must feel:

- I am, and I can never cease to be.

O thou that readest! take this parable Home to thy bosom; think as I have thought, And feel as I have felt, through all the changes, Which Time, Life, Death, the world's great actors,

wrought,

While centuries swept like morning dreams before

me,

And thou shalt find this moral to my song:

Thou art, and thou canst never cease to be:

What then are time, life, death, the world to thee?

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE ALPS;

A REVERIE.

PART I. Day.

THE mountains of this glorious land
Are conscious beings to mine eye,
When at the break of day they stand
Like giants, looking through the sky,
To hail the sun's unrisen car,

That gilds their diadems of snow;
While one by one, as star by star,

Their peaks in ether glow.

Their silent presence fills my soul,

When to the horizontal ray

The many-tinctured vapours roll

In evanescent wreaths away,