Where they are not

The heart alone can make divine
Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust
Belie the vaunt,

That man can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chaunt.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples-creeds themselves grow wan!
But there's a dome of nobler span,

A temple given

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban-
Its space is Heaven!

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,
The harmonious spheres

Make music, though unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspect above?

Ye must be Heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime

I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime

Shall yet be drawn,

And reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass'd round;

And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallow'd ground.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,
The sweet south wind shall wander by
And with the music of his wing
Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,
Where Heaven and Love their sabbath holds,
Where pure and happy spirits smile,
Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,
Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd.

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam,
To revel with the cloudless Hours
In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than cherub loves,
And let the name be Caroline.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-colour'd Even,
Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows;
So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,
Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
And wanton flowers, that well may court
An Angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly-scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome,
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guidest the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brow so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,
O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,

And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,

And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of

June: