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Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather ;
O ! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.

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Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos Lemures, portentaque Thessala.

Horat.

THE skies are blue; the moon reclines
Above the silent grove of pines,
- As if devoid of motion ;
The ivied abbey frowns forlorn ;
And stilly to the ear are borne

The murmurs of the ocean.

The nightshade springs beside the walk ;
Luxuriantly the hemlock stalk

Expands its leaves unthwarted.
Above the monumental stones,
Above the epitaphs, and bones,

Of beings long departed.

No human dreams disturb the soul, Whose thoughts, like giant-billows, roll

'Mid darksome ages hoary ; When light upon the human mind Dawn'd faintly, and the world was blind

With superstitious story.

When fairies, with their silver bells,
Were habitants of earthly dells,

All sheathed in emerald dresses ;
And mermaids, from the rock, were seen
At sea, and every wave between,

Combing their dewy tresses.

When wither'd hags their orgies kept, 'Mid darksome night; when Nature slept,

And tempests threaten'd danger ; Sheer, from the precipice to throw Down-down among the rocks below,

The lorn, benighted stranger.

When grim, before the vision stalk'd
Such figures as no longer walk'd

The upper world ; and faces
Of men that on their death-beds lay,
As twilight spreads her shades of grey,

Were seen in desert places.

Then, glittering to the morning sun,
With casque, and sable morion,

And greaves, and cuirass glancing,
The knight, and vassals at his call,
On battle-feud forsook the hall,

A thousand chargers prancing.

Dark deeds were done and blood was shed
In secret, and the spirit led

To fury, and to madness;
Hearths quench'd ; and black walls smoking

round; And children's blood upon the ground;

And widows left in sadness.

Then, from her cloister wall, the nun
Gazed anxious towards the setting sun,

Descending o'er the ocean ;
Till startled by the deep-toned bell,
That summon'd her from lonely cell

To eventide devotion,

Then, from the tilt and tournay, came
The youthful knight, with soul of flame,

His lady's rights defending ;
The glove upon his cap on high ;
And love unto his falcon eye

Redoubled ardour lending.

Or at the Louvre-while his steed
Shot forward with the lightning's speed,

Mid courtly crowds assembled,
The gallant bore the ring away,
And turning to his mistress gay,

Their meeting glances trembled.

Now all have pass'd-their halls are bare-
The ravens only harbour there ;

And restless owls are hooping
Around the vaults, as if to bring,
Day's rosy lustre withering,

Departed spirits trooping.

A giant ruin mgrimly frown
Its walls of grey, and roof of brown;

Its watch-towers dimly throwing
Their shadows in the pure moonlight
Far from them, and to wizard night

A doubled power bestowing.

With hound in leash, and hawk in hood,
The forester, through pale and wood,

From morn till eve was roaming 'Mid scenes majestically wildDark mountains huge, o'er mountains piled,

Begirt with torrents foaming.

And o'er the precipices bleak,
At pride of place, the eagle's shriek,

Beneath the tempest scowling,
Dismal he heard, afar from men,
In wastes where foxes made their den,

And famish'd wolves were howling.

No voice is heard-'tis silence all-
The steed hath vanish'd from the stall,

The hawk and hound have perish'd ;
Lichens o'erspread the orchard trees,
The flowers and shrubs sigh to the breeze,

For gone are they who cherish’d.

JOHN MALCOLM.

STANZAS ON THE CLOSE OF A YEAR. And it hath gone into the grave of time The past-the mighty sepulchre of all !

That solemn sound-the midnight's mournful

chime, Was its deep dead-bell—but within the hall The old and young hold gladsome festival.What hath it left them thus to cause such joy ?Gray hairs to some—and hearts less green to all, And fewer steps to where their fathers lie Low in the church-yard cell-cold-dark-and

silently !

Strange time for mirth !-when round the leaf

less tree The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh, And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea, Mute every woodland's evening melody, Mute the wide landscape-save where, hurrying by, Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight, Or, slowly sailing through the black’ning sky, Hoots unto solitude the bird of night, Seeking the domeless wall-the turret's hoary

height.

And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve; She does not heed the woes of human kind; No: for the tempests howl, the waters heave Their hoary hills unto the raging wind, And the poor bark no resting-place can find; And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in

vain, For, to the ruthless elements consign'd, The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main, Ne'er to be seen by them, nor heard of e'er again !

Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread, And through yon shoreless sea they wander on;

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