Of many waters, or as evening blends With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;

And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky

Bright as the glimpses of eternity.

To saints accorded in their mortal hour.

VIII.

COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASCASTLE IN NORTH WALES.

THROUGH shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls,

Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed,

The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls

Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls,

Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade.

Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine

Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar;

And, though past pomp no changes can restore,

A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine !

Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)

Since thou dost bear it,-a memorial theme
For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark
cell.

XIX.

FLOOR IN

THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CA

THEDRAL.

Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place!

And, if Time spare the colors for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt,

DALE, DERBYSHIRE.

melt

And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, And think and feel, as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown

Unrecognized through many a household

tear

More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew

By morning shed around a flower half-blown;
Tears of delight, that testified how true
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

XXV.

WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant of such weak fibre that the treacherous air

Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vig. ilant

Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For naugnt but what thy happiness could spare.

AND LIVERPOOL).

UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; 'nviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth That Pile of Turf is half a century old : Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told

free to hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantineSpeak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

LINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON.

A POET!-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his handmust laugh

By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?

Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.

XXVIII.

THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky

Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. if with raptured eye We watch their splendor, shall we covet storms,

And wish the Lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high?

Behold, already they forget to shine,

Dissolve and leave to him who gazed a sigh, Not loth to thank each moment for its boon

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and Warhorse stand

On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck;

Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side

Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check

Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck

In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed

Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest,

As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed

Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame

In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy

name,

Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts divinely blest!

XXX.

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun,

Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide;

And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms, -and in

the sun

Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side,

Varying its shape wherever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the
green,

Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen;