Not long the Nuptials were delayed; And sage tradition still rehearses The pomp the glory of that hour When toward the Altar from her bower King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, And Angels carolled these far-echoed

verses:

Who shrinks not from alliance
Of evil with good Powers,
To God proclaims defiance,
And mocks whom he adores.

A Ship to Christ devoted
From the Land of Nile did go;
Alas! the bright Ship floated,
An idol at her Prow.

By magic domination,
The Heaven-permitted vent
Of purblind mortal passion,
Was wrought her punishment.

The Flower, the Form within it,
What served they in her need?
Her port she could not win it,
Nor from mishap be freed.

The tempest overcame her,
And she was seen no more;
But gently gently blame her,
She cast a Pearl ashore.

The Maid to Jesu hearkened,
And kept to him her faith,

Till sense in death was darkened,
Or sleep akin to death.

But Angels round her pillow Kept watch, a viewless band; And, billow favouring billow, She reached the destined strand.

Blest Pair! whate'er befall you,
Your faith in Him approve
Who from frail earth can call you,
To bowers of endless love!

ODE,

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING.

WHILE from the purpling east departs
The Star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
For May is on the lawn.

A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and
tree,

Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
The tremulous heart excite;

And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when Youths and
Maids

At peep of dawn would rise,

And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song--to grace the rite
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping Things
Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay Plant
Where the slim wild Deer roves;

And served in depths where Fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath,
Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit Cave a wreath
To honour Thee, sweet May!
Where Cities fanned by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest Flower-pot-nursling dares
To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The Pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more;

Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty One of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
In flows the joyous year.

Thy help is with the Weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;
No Cliff so bare but on its steeps

Thy favours may be found;
But most on some peculiar nook

That our own hands have drest, Thou and thy train are proud to look, And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth When May is whispering,

Come!

Choose from the bowers of virgin earth
The happiest for your home;
Heaven's bounteous love through me is
spread

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,
Drops on the mouldering turret's head,
And on your turf-clad graves !"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,

Or "the rathe primrose as it dies
Forsaken" in the shade!

Vernal fruitions and desires

Are linked in endless chase;

While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;

If expectations newly blown

Have perished in thy sight;

If loves and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare;
Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.

Lo! Streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool:

By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle Mists as glide.
Curling with unconfirmed intent,
On that green mountain's side.

How delicate the leafy veil

Through which yon House of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep cale By few but shepherds trod ! And lowly Huts, near beaten ways, No sooner stand attired

In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.

Season of fancy and of hope,

Permit not for one hour

A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower 1

Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,

This modest charm of not too much,

Part seen, imagined part!

INSCRIPTION.

Such offering BEAUMONT dreaded and forbade,

A spirit meek in self-abasement clad.

Yet here at least, though few have numbered days

That shunned so modestly the light of

praise, [rav His graceful manners, and the temperate

By Roman Perseverance, are destroyed.
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping

ELEGIAC MUSINGS

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THE LATE SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.

[In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a mural monument, the Inscription upon which, in deference to the earnest request of the deceased, is confined to name, dates, and these words:"Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O LORD!"]

WITH copious eulogy in prose and rhyme Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time,

Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise And still we struggle when a good man dies:

play,

Brightening a converse never known to

swerve

From courtesy and delicate reserve;
That sense-the bland philosophy of life
Which checked discussion ere it warmed
to strife;

Those fine accomplishments, and varied powers,

Might have their record among sylvan

bowers.

-Oh, fled for ever! vanished like a blast
That shook the leaves in myriads as it
Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and
passed;
[sky,
From all its spirit-moving imagery,
Intensely studied with a Painter's eye,
A Poet's heart; and, for congenial view,
Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue
To common recognitions while the line
Flowed in a course of sympathy divine-
That all the seasons shared with equal
Oh! severed too abruptly from delights
rights-

Rapt in the grace of undismantled age, From soul-felt music, and the treasured page,

Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed

Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head, While Friends beheld thee give with eye,

voice, mien,

More than theatric force to Shakspeare's

scene

Rebuke us not !-The mandate is obeyed That said, "Let praise be mute where I am laid ;"

The holier deprecation, given in trust
To the cold Marble, waits upon thy dust;
Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief
From silent admiration wins relief.
Too long abashed thy Name is like a Rose
That doth "within itself its sweetness
close;"

A drooping Daisy changed into a cup
In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up.
Within these Groves, where still are flitting
by

Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh,

Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, When towers and temples fall, to speak of Thee!

If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom Recall not there the wisdom of the Tomb, Green ivy, risen from out the cheerful earth, Shall fringe the lettered stone; and herbs spring forth,

Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbour.d,

Shall penetrate the heart without a wound;
While truth and love their purposes fulfil,
Commemorating genius, talent, skill,
That could not lie concealed where Thou
wert known;

Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, The God upon whose mercy they are thrown.

INSCRIPTION

INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OF RYDAL MOUNT.

IN these fair Vales hath many a Tree

At Wordsworth's suit been spared; And from the Builder's hand this Stone, For some rude beauty of its own,

Was rescued by the Bard:
So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,
As one of the departed.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. SMALL service is true service while it lasts; Of Friends, however humble, scorn not

one :

The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.

INCIDENT AT BRUGÈS.
IN Bruges town is many a street
Whence busy life hath fled;
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet,
There heard we, halting in the shade
The grass-grown pavement tread.
A harp that tuneful prelude made
Flung from a Convent-tower,

To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,

Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret feil
When silent were both voice and chords
The shadow and the song.
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet, for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;
But where we stood, the setting sun

Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the Nun,
'Twas through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,
If even a passing Stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat
The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured
Upon them not forlorn,

Though of a lineage once abhorred,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn.
Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite
Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,

From Hebrew fountains sprung;
That gives this ragged group to ca
Around the dell a gleam
Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem!

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS.

"Not to the earth confined,

Ascend to heaven."

WHERE will they stop, those breathing
Powers,

The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aërial harmonies;

From humble violet modest thyme
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy :

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride

If like ambition be their guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, The spirit-quickener of the flowers, That with moist virtue softly cleaves The buds, and freshens the young leaves, The Birds pour forth their souls in notes Of rapture from a thousand throats, Here checked by too impetuous haste, While there the music runs to waste, With bounty more and more enlarged, Till the whole air is overcharged; Give ear, O Man! to their appeal And thirst for no inferior zeal, Thou, who canst think, as well as feel.

Mount from the earth; aspire ! aspire! So pleads the town's cathedral choir, In strains that from their solemn height Sink, to attain a loftier flight: