And of some nameless combat: hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn,
And, 'midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd
spire

Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Thee too that hour shall bless, the balmy close

Of labor's day, the herald of repose,

Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth

Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales, And merry England's voice floats up from all her vales.

Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear

Such as to Heaven's immortal hosts are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth,

Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew

birth,

When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, And the air trembled with the breath of God; It lives in those soft accents to the sky

Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, When holy strains, from life's pure font which sprung,

Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue.

And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells,

(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity's voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead,

Shall at the call press forward, to be made
A glorious offering, meet for him who said,
"Mercy, not sacrifice!" and when, of old,
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll'd,
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there!

When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled world

His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl'd,
And, like those visitations which deform
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere,
Silence behind-before him flight and fear;
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing
wheels,

Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels,
And earth is moulded but by one proud will,
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still;
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay,
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ?
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains?

And shall no harmony of softer close
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows,

And, mingling with the murmur of its wave,
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave?

Oh! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes

Have searched the depths of life's realities,
Than the red battle, or the trophied car,
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far;
There are more noble strains than those which
swell

The triumphs, ruin may suffice to tell!

Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days Beneath the palms of Judah! Ye whose lays With torrent rapture, from their source on high, Burst in the strength of immortality!

Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among, Of conquering hosts, of empires crnsh'd, ye sung,

But of that spirit, destined to explore

With the bright day-spring every distant shore, To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed,

To make the home of peace in hearts that

bleed;

With beams of home to pierce the dungeon's gloom,

And pour eternal star-light o'er the tomb.

And bless'd and hallow'd be its haunts! for there

Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair

There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been nursed;

There from the rock the springs of life have

burst,

Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts that

rise,

Warm from the source of human sympathiesWhere'er its path of radiance may be traced, Shall find their temples in the silent waste.

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

I.

ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfillment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far.-Yet one more
dream!

From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave en
shrined

Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone

Of lost affection ;-something that may prove What sne hath been, whose melancholy love

On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song that gush'd when none were

near,

And dream by night, and weary thought by day, Stealing the brightness from her life away,

While thou

-Awake! not yet within me die,

Under the burden and the agony

Of this vain tenderness,-my spirit, wake!
Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,

Live! in thy work breathe out !-that he may yet,

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret

Thine unrequited gift.

II.

It comes, the power Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower, That could not win me love. Yet once again I greet it proudly, with its rushing train Of glorious images:-they throng-they pressA sudden joy lights up my loneliness,

I shall not perish all!

The bright work grows

Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,

Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows

and now

I give my own life's history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear

My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair.