Long as she lived, the village lay
Calm-unrepining in decay-
For grief was its own consolation,
And death seem'd only rest.
-But now a dim and sullen breath
Hath character'd the face of death;
And tears, and sighs, and sobs, and wailing,
All round-o'er human joy prevailing-
Or 'mid the pausing fits of woe,
Wild silence, like a depth of snow
Shrouding in slumber stern and dull
The spring-fields late so beautiful,
'pon their fainting spirits press
With weight of utter hopelessness,
And drive them off, they heed not where,
io that oblivion's ebbless wave
May lie for ever on one grave,
One village of despair.

Taint with such spectacles of woe
Towards their solitary home
Across the village-green they go-

yeing the streamlet's murmuring flow, Where melt away the specks of foam, ike human creatures dying

Mid their voyage down life's peaceful stream,
Jpon the bosom of a dream

n thoughtless pleasure lying.
Calm reveries of composing grief!
Whose very sadness yields relief
To heart, and soul, and eye.
The Orphans look around-and lo!
How touching is that Lilac's glow,
Beneath the tall Laburnum's bow
That dazzling spans the sky!
That golden gleam-that gentle fire
Forces even anguish to admire ;
And gently cheers away distress
By the power of nature's loveliness.
from many a little garden steal
Odours that have been wasting long
A sweetness there was none to feel;
And from the hidden flowers a song
Of bees, in happy multitude
All busy in that solitude,
An image brings of all the strife
And gladness of superior life,

Till man seem, 'mid these insects blest,
A brother-insect hardly miss'd.

They seize that transient calm; the door
Of their own cottage open stands-
Far lonelier than one hour before,

When they with weak and trembling hands
The head of that dear coffin bore
Unto its darksome bed!

To them far drearier than the tomb,
The naked silence of the room
Deserted by the dead.

They kiss the dim and senseless walls,
Then hurry fast away;

Some sudden thought their feet recalls,
And trifles urge their stay,
Til with the violence of despair
They rush into the open air,

And bless its thatch and sheltering tree,
Then leave it everlastingly!

-On, on they go, in sorrow blind,
Yet with a still and gentle motion
That speaks the inner soul resign'd;
Like little billows o'er the ocean
Still flowing on with tide and wind,
And though the tempest smite their breast,
Reaching at last some bay of rest.

God bless them on their pilgrimage!
And may his hand divine

With healing dew their woes assuage,
When they have reach'd that silent shrine
By nature framed in the open air,
With soft turf for the knees of prayer,

And dome of many a pastoral hill
Lying in heaven serene and still;
For, pilgrims ne'er to Sion went
More mournful, or more innocent,
Before the rueful Cross to lie
At midnight on Mount Calvary.
Two favourite sheep before them go-
Each with its lambs of spotless snow
Frisking around with pattering feet,
With peaceful eyes and happy bleat.
Happy! yet like a soft complaint!
As if at times the voice of sorrow
Through the hush'd air came breathing faint
From blessed things that fear no morrow.
-Each Shepherdess holds in her hand
A verdant crook of the willow-wand,
Wreathed round with melancholy flowers
Gather'd 'mid the hills in happier hours.
In a small cage a thrush is sitting-
Or restless as the light

That through his sunny prison plays,
From perch to perch each moment flitting,
His quick and glancing eye surveys
The novel trees and fields so bright,
And like a torrent gushing strong
He sends through heaven his sudden song,
A song that all dim thought destroys,
And breathes o'er all its own wild joys.

As on the Orphans hold their way
Through the stillness of the dying day,
Fairies might they seem who are returning,
At the end of some allotted time,
Unto their own immortal clime!
Each bearing in its lovely hand
Some small memorial of the land

Where they, like common human frames,
And call'd by gentle Christian names,
For long had been sojourning!
Some little fair insensate thing,
Relic of that wild visiting!

Bird that beneath a brighter spring
Of its own vanish'd earth will sing;
Those harmless creatures that will glide
O'er faëry vales in earthly snow,
And from the faëry river's flow
Come forth more purely beautified.

Now with a wild and mournful song,
The fair procession moves along,
While, by that tune so sweet
The little flock delighted, press
As if with human tenderness

Around the singer's feet.

Up-up the gentle slope they wind,
Leaving the laughing flowers behind
That seem to court their stay.
One moment on the top they stand,
At the wild-unfolding vale's command,
-Then down into that faëry land
Dream-like they sink away!

LINES

But jogs on careless of them all,

Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike a sing.

A gipsey-group! the secret wood
Stirs through its leafy solitude,

As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;
Th' unpannier'd Ass slowly retires

From the brown tents and sparkling fires, And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, More pensive 'mid this scene of glee

OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.

POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
More frail and death-like even than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven
Full in thy face are coldly driven,

As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.

Yet chill'd with cold and drench'd with rain,
Mild creature! thou dost not complain
By sound or look of these ungracious skies;
Calmly as if in friendly shed,

There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,

And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed

eyes.

Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze
On thee; nor am I loth to praise

Him whom in moral mood this image drew;
And yet, methinks, that I could frame

An image different, yet the same,

More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature

true.

Behold a lane retired and green,
Winding amid a forest-scene

With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;
There is a browsing Ass espied,

One colt is frisking by her side,

And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.

And lo! a little maiden stands,
With thistles in her tender hands,
Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat;
Or gently down before him lays,
With words of solace and of praise,

The soul of all her softest rays
On yonder placid creature plays,

As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.

But now the silver moonbeams fade,
And, peeping through a flowery glade,
Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:
An Ass stands meek and patient there,
And by her side a spectre fair,

To drink the balmy cup once more before dies.

With tenderest care the pitying dame
Supports the dying maiden's frame.

And strives with laughing looks her heart to

cheer;

While playful children crowd around

To catch her eye by smile or sound, Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!

I feel this mournful dream impart

A holier image to my heart,

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth: Blest creature! through the solemn night,

I see thee bathed in heavenly light, Shed from that wondrous child-The Saviour of the Earth.

When flying Herod's murd'rous rage,
Thou on that wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie;
On thee the humble Jesus sate,
When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate
To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by

PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! wilt Thou lay thy head
For one little hour on thy Lover's bed,
And none but the silent stars of night
Shall witness be to our delight!

Alas! 'tis said that the Couch must be

Of the Eider-down that is spread for Thee, So, I in my sorrow must lie alone,

For mine, sweet Sleep! is a Couch of stone.

Music to Thee I know is dear;

Then, the saddest of music is ever here,
For Grief sits with me in my cell,
And she is a Syren who singeth well.

But Thou, glad Sleep! lovest gladsome airs,
And wilt only come to thy Lover's prayers
When bells of merriment are ringing,
And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,
No Rival hast Thou in my solitude;
Be mine, my Love! and we two will lie
Embraced for ever-or awake to die!

yet when the Moon, like a pilgrim fair, Mid star and planet journeyed slow, And, mellowing the stillness of the air, Smiled on the world below;

That, MELROSE! 'mid thy mouldering pride, All breathless and alone,

I grasp'd the dreams to day denied,

High dreams of ages gone!

My being was sublimed by joy,
My heart was big, yet I could not weep;
I felt that God would ne'er destroy
The mighty in their tranced sleep.
Within the pile no common dead

Lay blended with their kindred mould;
Theirs were the hearts that pray'd, or bled,
In cloister dim, on death-plain red,
The pious and the bold.

There slept the saint whose holy strains
Brought seraphs round the dying bed;
And there the warrior, who to chains
Ne'er stoop'd his crested head.
I felt my spirit sink or swell
With patriot rage or lowly fear,
As battle-trump, or convent-bell,
Rung in my tranced ear.

But dreams prevail'd of loftier mood,
When stern beneath the chancel high
My country's spectre-monarch stood,
All sheath'd in glittering panoply;
Then I thought with pride what noble blood
Had flow'd for the hills of liberty.

High the resolves that fill the brain With transports trembling upon pain, When the veil of time is rent in twain, That hides the glory past!

The scene may fade that gave them birth, But they perish not with the perishing earth, For ever shall they last.

And higher, I ween, is that mystic might
That comes to the soul from the silent night,
When she walks, like a disembodied spirit,
Through realms her sister shades inherit,
And soft as the breath of those blessed flowers
That smile in Heaven's unfading bowers,
With love and awe, a voice she hears
Murmuring assurance of immortal years.
In hours of loneliness and woe
Which even the best and wisest know,
How leaps the lighten'd heart to seize

On the bliss that comes with dreams like these!
As fair before the mental eye

The pomp and beauty of the dream return,
Dejected virtue calms her sigh,

And leans resign'd on memory's urn.
She feels how weak is mortal pain,
When each thought that starts to life again
Tells that she hath not lived in vain.

For Solitude, by Wisdom woo'd,

His heart had turn'd to stone!

For oft, though felt no moving gale,

Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud,
Through the lofty Oriel opening pale,
Was seen the hurrying cloud;

And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall
Frown'd black as bier's mysterious pall
From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer;
It seem'd as if sound had ceased to be;
Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree,
Relieved the noiseless ear.

The owl had sailed from her silent tower,
Tweed hush'd his weary wave,
The time was midnight's moonless hour,
My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave!

And even in gloom or tumult view'd, She sanctifies their living blood

Who learn her lore aright.

The dreams her awful face imparts
Unhallowed mirth destroy;

Her griefs bestow on noble hearts
A nobler power of joy.

While hope and faith the soul thus fill,
We smile at chance distress,

And drink the cup of human ill

In stately happiness,

Thus even where death his empire keeps
Life holds the pageant vain,
And where the lofty spirit sleeps,
There lofty visions reign.

Yea, often to night-wandering man A pow'r fate's dim decrees to scan, In lonely trance by bliss is given; And midnight's starless silence rolls A giant vigour through our souls, That stamps us sons of Heaven.

Then, MELROSE! Tomb of heroes old!
Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee;
The visions that can ne'er be told,
That only poets in their joy can see,
The glory borne above the sky
The deep-felt weight of sanctity!
Thy massy towers I view no more
Through brooding darkness rising hoar,
Like a broad line of light dim seen
Some sable mountain-cleft between!

Since that dread hour, hath human thought
A thousand gay creations brought
Before my earthly eye;

I to the world have lent an ear,
Delighted all the while to hear
The voice of poor mortality.
Yet, not the less doth there abide
Deep in my soul a holy pride,

That knows by whom it was bestow'd,
Lofty to man, but low to God;
Such pride as hymning angels cherish,
Blest in the blaze where man would perish.

SONNET.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the Lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion, there was rest:
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul !
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.

Ir was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!-Mist and cloud

Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast To thee made darling music, wild and loud, Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents

play'd,

As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,
A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd
Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.

I could have thought that every living form Had fled, or perish'd in that savage storm, So desolate the day. To me were given Peace, calmness, joy: then to myself I said, Can grief, time, chance, or elements control Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of soul!

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

METHOUGHT beneath a Castle huge I stood, That seem'd to grow out of a rock sublime, Through the dominion of its solitude

Augustly frowning on the rage of Time. Its lofty minarets, indistinct and dim, Look'd through the brooding clouds; and as smile

Of passing sunlight show'd these structures gr Burning like fire, I could have thought the while

That they were warriors keeping watch on high,

All motionless, and sheathed in radiant panoply

What mortal feet these rampart-heights m scale!

Lo! like black atoms mingling in the sky The far-off rooks and their fleet shadows sal; Scarce hears the soul their melancholy cry. What lovely colours bathed the frowning brow Of that imperial mansion! Radiant green, And purple fading in a yellow glow!

Oh! lovelier ne'er on mossy bank was seen In vernal joy; while bands of charter'd flowers Revell'd like fairy sprites along their pais

towers.

Down sunk the draw-bridge with a thund' shock;

And, in an instant, ere the eye could know, Bound the stern castle to th' opposing rock,

And hung in calmness o'er the flood below:A roaring flood, that, born amid the hills, Forced his lone path through many a darks

glen,

Till, join'd by all his tributary rills,

From lake and tarn, from marish and fro

fen,

He left his empire with a kingly glee,
And fiercely bade recoil the billows of the sea.

I felt it was a dream, nor wish'd to wake,
Though dim and pale by fits the vision grew,
And oft that vision dwindled to a lake,
And cliff and castle from the clouds withdre
Oft, all I heard was but a gentle swell,
Like the wild music of the summer leaves;
Till, like an army mustering in the dell,

The blasts came rushing from their pine-ch

caves,

And swept the silence of the scenes away, Even like a city storm'd upon the Sabbath-day

* The image in this line is from a poem of Mr. Co ridge.

Though strange my dream, I knew the Scottish strand,

And the bold Frith that rolling fiercely bright Far-distant faded 'mid that mountain land,

As 'mid dark clouds a sudden shower of light. Long have my lips been mute in Scotland's praise! Now is the hour for inspiration's song! The shadowy glories of departed days

Before my tranced soul in tumult throng, And I, with fearless voice, on them will call, From camp and battle-field, from princely bower and hall.

With only my still shadow by my side,

And Nature's lifeless things that slept around, I seem'd to be! when, from the portal wide, Startling as sudden light, or wandering sound, Onwards a figure came, with stately brow, And as he glanced upon the ruin'd Pile A look of regal pride, "Say, who art thou (His countenance bright'ning with a scornful smile,

He sternly cried) whose footsteps rash profane The wild romantic realm where I have will'd to reign ?"

But ere to those proud words I could reply, How changed that scornful face to soft and mild;

A witching frenzy glitter'd in his eye,

Harmless, withal, as that of playful child. And when once more the gracious vision spoke, I felt the voice familiar to mine ear; When many a faded dream of earth awoke,

Connected strangely with that unknown Seer, Who now stretch'd forth his arm, and on the sand A circle round me traced, as with Magician's wand.

Desire or power then had I none to move,
In that sweet prison, a delighted thrall,
Died all remembrances of daily love,

Or, if they glimmer'd, vain I held them all.
Alone on that Magician could I gaze;

His voice alone compell'd was I to hear, Wild as the autumnal wind that fitful plays A wailing dirge unto the dying year, Amid the silence of the midnight hour, Moan'd through the ivied window of a mouldering

tower.

He felt his might, and sported with my soul,
Even as the sea-wind dallies with a boat
That now doth fleeter than the billows roll,
Now, as at anchor, on the calm doth float.
Nor needed he to see my senses lock'd
In the dim maze of wildering fantasy;
But ever and anon my wonder mock'd

With careless looks of gentle tyranny.
Well-used was that Magician to the sight
Of souls by him subdued to terror and delight.

How bold the fearful oft in dreams become!

Familiar in the midst of all things strange! Unshuddering then, with spirits will we roam, Calm and unconscious of the unearthly change! Even so it fared with me; ere long I grew Familiar with the wizard of my dream,