Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to

the dead.

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind,

Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies, May cast one glance of tenderness behind

On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties, How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd, The might, the majesty, the proud array

Of England's march o'er many a noble field, All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.

Away, presumptuous thought!-departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays,
E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat! And thou may'st view, from thy divine abode, The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.

And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void Within our hearts-there veil'd thine image dwelt, But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd, Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt. VOL. III.

- 13

Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,

Thousands were born, who now in dust repose, And many a head, with years and sorrows grey, Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose; And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:-things revered,
Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd
His lonely pyramid of dread renown.

But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent
Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,

And swept each holy barrier from their course, Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood,

Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.

Be they eternal!-Be thy children found

Still to their country's altars true like thee! And, while "the name of Briton" is a sound Of rallying music to the brave and free, With the high feelings, at the word which swell, To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame, Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well, Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!

Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust, Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the

just.

All else shall pass away-the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their tombs depart;
But number not with perishable things

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, Heir-looms from race to race!—and oh! in days, When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, When our sons learn, "as household words," thy

praise,

Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest! And many a name of that imperial line,

Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with

thine!

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

THE moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,

And heaven is cloudless-earth is still!
The pile, that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array'd,

Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch'd with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,

Soft mingling on its dark-grey stone,
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown;

And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain-vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil'd shade, a softer gloom;
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep,

But darting from its side,

How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o'er the tide !

No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze

Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
-The boat has reach'd the silent bay,
The dashing oar has ceased to play,
The breeze has murmur'd and has died
In forest-shades, on ocean's tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;

And midnight spreads o'er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane,
To break on nature's sleep!

It is the hour for thought to soar,

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore,

For passion to repose;

And virtue to forget her tears,

In visions of sublimer spheres!

For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,

Children of hallow'd peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!

Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!