As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.
But pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays the expert ventriloquist;
And, caught by glimpses now-now missed,
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without!
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustained by delicate illusion?
He's at your elbow-to your feeling
The notes are from the floor or ceiling;
And there's a riddle to be guessed,
'Till you have marked his heaving breast,
Where tiny sinking and faint swell,
Betray the Elf that loves to dwell
In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.

Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred
Commend him, when he's only heard.
But small and fugitive our gain
Compared with his who long hath lain,
With languid limbs and patient head,
Reposing on a lone sick-bed;
Where now he daily hears a strain
That cheats him of too busy cares,
Eases his pain, and helps his prayers.
And who but this dear Bird beguiled
The fever of that pale-faced Child?
Now cooling, with his passing wing,
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring;
Recalling now, with descant soft
Shed round her pillow from aloft,
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,
And the invisible sympathy
Of" Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Blessing the bed she lies upon :"*
And sometimes, just as listening ends
In slumber, with the cadence blends
A dream of that low-warbled hymn
Which Old-folk, fondly pleased to trim
Lamps of faith now burning dim,
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,
When clouds gave way at dead of night,
And the moon filled the church with light,
Used to sing in heavenly tone,
Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with wingèd baby-faces.

Thrice-happy Creature! in all lands Nurtured by hospitable hands: Free entrance to this cot has he, Entrance and exit both yet free; And, when the keen unruffled weather That thus brings man and bird together, Shall with its pleasantness be past, The casement closed and door made fast, To keep at bay the howling blast, He needs not fear the season's rage, For the whole house is Robin's cage. Whether the bird flit here or there, O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, Though some may frown, and make a stir To scare him as a trespasser, And he belike will flinch or start, Good friends he has to take his part; One chiefly, who with voice and look Pleads for him from the chimney nook, Where sits the Dame, and wears away Her long and vacant holiday; With images about her heart, Reflected, from the years gone by, On human nature's second infancy.

RURAL ILLUSIONS.

I.

SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright
Than those of fabulous stock?
A second darted by ;-and lo!

Another of the flock,

Through sunshine flitting from the bough
To nestle in the rock.
Transient deception! a gay freak
Of April's mimicries!

Those brilliant Strangers, hailed with joy
Among the budding trees,

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray

To frolic on the breeze.

2.

Maternal Flora! show thy face,

And let thy hand be seen
Which sprinkles here these tiny flowers,
That, as they touch the green,
Take root (so seems it) and look up

In honour of their Queen.
Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,
That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,
Most dainty, most admired,
Were only blossoms dropped from twigs
Of their own offspring tired.

3.

Not such the World's illusive shows;
Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave
The Floweret as it springs,

For the Undeceived, smile as they may,
Are melancholy things:
But gentle Nature plays her part

With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth
So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased
Whom oftenest she beguiles.

THIS LAWN, &c.

THIS Lawn, a carpet all alive

With shadows flung from leaves-to strive
In dance, amid a press

Of sunshine-an apt emblem yields
Of Worldlings revelling in the fields
Of strenuous idleness;

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze Encounter, and to narrow seas

Forbid a moment's rest;

The medley less when boreal Lights
Glance to and fro like aery Sprites

To feats of arms addrest!

Yet, spite of all this eager strife,
This ceaseless play, the genuine life

That serves the steadfast hours,
Is in the grass beneath, that grows
Unheeded, and the mute repose
Ut sweetly-breathing flowers.

THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. FLATTERED with promise of escape From every hurtful blast,

Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape, Her loveliest and her last.

Less fair is summer riding high

In fierce solstitial power,
Less fair than when a lenient sky
Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves
The labours of the plough,
And ripening fruits and forest leaves
All brighten on the bough,

What pensive beauty autumn shows,
Before she hears the sound

Of winter rushing in, to close
The emblematic round!

Such be our Spring, our Summer such ;
So may our Autumn blend

With hoary Winter, and Life touch.
Through heaven-born hope, her end!

HUMANITY.

(WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1829.)

Not from his fellows only man may learn Rights to compare and duties to discern: All creatures and all objects, in degree, Are friends and patrons of humanity.—MS. [The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the beginning of the following verses, are supposed to have been used, by our British ancestors, both for judicial and religious purposes. Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, both in Great Britain and in Ireland.] WHAT though the Accused, upon his own ⚫ appeal

To righteous Gods when Man has ceased to feel,

Or at a doubting Judge's stern command, Before the STONE OF POWER no longer stand

To take his sentence from the balanced Block,

As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock; Though, in the depths of sunless groves,

no more

The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore; Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering

trees

Do still perform mysterious offices!
And still in beast and bird a function dwells,
That, while we look and listen, sometimes
tells

Upon the heart, in more authentic guise
Than Oracles, or winged Auguries,
Spake to the Science of the ancient wise.
Not uninspired appear their simplest ways;
Their voices mount symbolical of praise-
To mix with hymns that Spirits make and
hear;

And to fallen Man their innocence is dear. Knraptured Art draws from those sacred springs

Streams that reflect the poetry of things! Where Christian Martyrs stand in hues portrayed,

That, might a wish avail, would never fade. Borne in their hands the Lily and the Palm Shed round the Altar a celestial calm; There, too, behold the Lamb and guileless Dove

Prest in the tenderness of virgin love To saintly bosoms!-Glorious is the blending

Of right Affections, climbing or descending
Along a scale of light and life, with cares
Alternate; carrying holy thoughts and
pravers

Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High;
Descending to the worm in charity ;*
Like those good Angels whom a dream of
night

Gave, in the Field of Luz, to Jacob's sight;
All, while he slept, treading the pendent

stairs

What a fair World were ours for Verse to paint,

If Power could live at ease with selfrestraint!

Opinion bow before the naked sense
Of the great Vision,-faith in Providence ;
Merciful over all existence, just
To the least particle of sentient dust;
And, fixing by immutable decrees,
Seedtime and harvest for his purposes!
Then would be closed the restless oblique
eye

That looks for evil like a treacherous spy; Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds

That into breezes sink; impetuous Minds
By discipline endeavour to grow meek
As Truth herself, whom they profess to seek.
Then Genius, shunning fellowship with
Pride,

Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's side;

Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice; And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, But unoffending creatures find release From quatified oppression, whose defence Rests on a hollow plea of recom.pence: Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane respect

Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. Witness those glances of indignant scorn From some high-minded Slave, impelled to spurn

The kindness that would make him less forlorn ;

Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued,
His look of pitiable gratitude!

Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, Where day departs in pomp, returns with smiles

To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land, As the sun mounts, by sea-borne breezes fanned;

A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats For Gods in council, whose green vales, Retreats

sengers,

That with a perfect will in one accord

Of strict obedience, served the Almighty Lord;

And with untired humility forbore

The ready service of the wings they wore.

for the Shades of Heroes, mingling

there

To breathe Elysian peace in upper air.

in one of Mr. Digby's valuable works.

protect

Enormities, which they at home reject! "Slaves cannot breathe in England"-a proud boast!

And yet a mockery! if, from coast to coast, Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil

Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil,
For the poor Many, measured out by rules
Fetched with cupidity from heartless
schools,

That to an Idol, falsely called "the Wealth
Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health,
Body and mind and soul; a thirst so keen
Is ever urging on the vast machine
Of sleepless Labour, 'mid whose dizzy
wheels

The Power least prized is that which thinks and feels.

Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age,

And all the heavy or light vassalage Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit Our varying moods, on human kind or brute,

'Twere well in little, as in great, to pause, Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. There are to whom even garden, grove, and field,

Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield; Who would not lightly violate the grace The lowliest flower possesses in its place; Nor shorten the sweet li e, too fugitive, Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE
PENCIL OF F. STONE.

BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care
Due to the day's unfinished task, of pen
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene
In Nature's prodigality displayed
Before my window, oftentimes and long
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich
The common light; whose stillness charms
the air,

Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits
With emblematic purity attired

In a white vest, white as her marble neck

But for the shadow by the drooping chin Cast into that recess-the tender shade The shade and light, both there and everywhere,

And through the very atmosphere she breathes,

Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill

That might from nature have been learnt

in the hour

When the lone Shepherd sees the morning spread

Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er Thou be, that kindling with a poet's soul Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft

Intensely from Imagination take

The treasure, what mine eyes behold see thou,

Even though the Atlantic Ocean roll between.

A silver line, that runs from brow to crown,

And in the middle parts the braided hair,
Just serves to show how delicate a soil
The golden harvest grows in; and those

eyes,

Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their colour emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks,

Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seeking naught

And shunning naught, their own peculiar life

Of motion they renounce, and with the head
Partake its inclination towards earth
In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness
Caught at the point where it stops short of
sadness.

Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make

me

Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought

Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene,

Has but approached the gates of womanhood,

Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god, her fancy free: The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, Will not be found.