The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore
Along thy wave, is still;

The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone,

And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs pour'd,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang

O'er stream and mountain free,

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;
And the still midnight hears the sound,
Ev'n as when first it roll'd.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptred cities rose !

Thou speak'st of one who doth not change-
So may our hearts repose.

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

"WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall

Mine is a fair and pillar'd hall,

Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams."

"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day,
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme;

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know→
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell,

Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;

Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard."

"My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low-
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.-
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye."

"Is my mother gone from her home away?
-But I know that my brothers are there at play.
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow-
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Fair child thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.-
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot."

"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ?—
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still,
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the turf is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap and the fresh winds blow-
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

THE DEPARTED.

"Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre."

BRYANT.

AND shrink ye from the way
To the spirit's distant shore?
Earth's mightiest men in arm'd array,
Are thither gone before.

The warrior kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,
From the feast of victory.

And the seers, who sat of yore
By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore-
Can ye still fear the grave?—

We fear, we fear !-the sunshine
Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,
Or the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink?-the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn, They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence none return:

And the lovely, whose memorial

Is the verse that cannot die,

They too are gone with their glorious bloom, From the gaze of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng

Of the earth's departed flowers, And the masters of the mighty song

In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear;

Not from our path those flowers are gone-
We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

-As the last leaves on the bough!

Ye have loved the gleam of many a smile
That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices In your walks that now are still; There are seats left void in your earthly homes, Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more

That made spring-time in your heart;
Kindred and friends are gone before,—
And ye still fear to part ?—

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.

"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,

Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles."

Joy is upon the lonely seas,

When Indian forests pour

Forth to the billow and the breeze
Their fragrance from the shore;

Paradise Lost.

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
Bless'd, 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,
That meet us on life's weary way
Amidst her toilings 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.

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 !"*

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