ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the Ocean Isle !

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep

Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade ;—

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done !There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night
Is heard the tiger's roar;-

But let the sound roll on !
It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone,-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The Western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung;—

But let the floods rush on !
Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England's dead!

The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;—

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won,There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose "Tis a dark and dreadful hour,

When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,Even there sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deepFree, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation. See OWEN's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.]

WHERE met our bards of old? - the glorious throng,

They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash'd bright from
rocky caves;
[graves,
They met where woods made moan o'er warriors'
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,1 on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;

1 Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech1 frown'd, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.

There throng'd th' inspired of yore !-on plain or height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty !-soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
'Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest

With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast;

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn, From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,

Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! [belong, To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!

1 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

2 The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.-Pennant.

Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness, [height,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE VOICE OF SPRING."

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long-
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;-
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have look'd on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! [lay,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous
Come forth to the sunshine-I may not stay.

3 Llyn, a lake or pool. Eryri, Snowdon.

5 Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But yeye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass'd! There is that come over your brow and eye Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! -Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet: Oh! what have you look'd on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!-and I see not here

All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!

There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,

Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light; There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; [sky, There were voices that rang through the sapphire And had not a sound of mortality!

["The Voice of Spring,' perhaps the best known and best loved of all Mrs Hemans' lyrics, was written early in the year 1823; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement :-The Voice of Spring' expresses some peculiar feelings of my own. Although my life has yet been unvisited by any affliction so deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one you have been called upon to sustain; yet I cannot but feel every year, with the return of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened since its last appearance; and to me the spring, with all its joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know upon the subject of this season, is contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps acquainted; but the feelings he expresses are of a very different character from those I have described to you, seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.' "This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced by the influence of spring, will be well understood by many a gentle heart. Never do the

'Fond strange yearnings from the soul's deep cell
Gush for the faces we no more shall see,'

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the great gulf that divides us from those who are now gone down in silence.' Some unforgotten voice is ever whisperingAnd I too in Arcadia! We remember how we were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine; and these things can charm us no longer, because they are not.' The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrary-its falling

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?

Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now-
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace-
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown:
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,

Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair! But I know of a land where there falls no blightI shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,

I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne-
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore-
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well,

farewell!

leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bringing more home to us the sense of our own mortality, identifies us more closely with those who are gone before, and the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are impressed with a more pervading conviction that we shall go to them; while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to echo, they will not return to us!'

"These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs Hemans' writings, deepening with the influence of years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in the poem called 'Breathings of Spring.' And when it is remembered that it was at this season her own earthly course was finished, the following passage from a letter, written in the month of May, some years after the one last quoted, cannot be read without emotion: Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to think of; yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it should be in spring-the influence of that season is so strangely depressing to my heart and frame.'”—Memoir, p. 66-68.

"The Voice of Spring,' one of the first of what may be called Mrs Hemans' fanciful lyrics, which presently became as familiar as the music of some popular composer when brought to our doors by wandering minstrels."-CHORLEY'S Memorials, vol. i. p. 113.

"But it is time Mrs Hemans' poetry were allowed to speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garder -now attracted by a rose-straightway allured by a lily-nov tempted by a stately tulip—and again unsettled by a breath ing violet, or 'well-attired woodbine.' We do think, how ever, that the Voice of Spring' is the pride of Mrs H. parterre-the rose of her poetry."-(A. A. WATTS.)—Literar Magnet, 1826.]