AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream!

Thou near the eagle's nest-within brief sail,

I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, Where thy deep voice could lull me! Faint the beam

Of human life when first allowed to gleam
On mortal notice.-Glory of the vale,
Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though
frail,

Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

Of thy soft breath!-Less vivid wreath entwined

Nemæan victor's brow; less bright was worn,

Meed of some Roman chief-in triumph

borne

With captives chained; and shedding from

his car

The sunset splendors of a finished war Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!

(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)

A POINT of life between my Parents' dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And You, my Offspring! that do still re-
main

Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain

We breathed together for a moment's space, The wrong, by love provoked, let love ar raign,

And only love keep in your hearts a place.

"Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand," Who in these Wilds then struggled for command;

The strong were merciless, without hope the weak';

Till this bright Stranger came, fair as daybreak,

And as a cresset true that darts its length Of beamy lustre from tower of strength; Guidin h mariner through troubled seas, And cheering oft i peaceful reveries, Liked the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland of St. Bees.

To aid the Votaress, miracles believed Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved;

So piety took root; and Song might tell
What humanizing virtues near her cell
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide
around;

How savage bosoms melted at the sound
Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonics
Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through

close trees,

From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love,

Was glorified, and took its place, above

The silent stars, among the angelic quire, Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, And perished utterly; but her good deeds Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with seeds

Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze With quickening impulse answered their mute pleas,

And lo! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St, Bees.

There are the naked clothed, the hungry fed;

And Charity extendeth to the dead
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest
Of tardy penitents; or for the best
Among the good (when love might else
have slept,

Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept.
Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees,
Who, to that service bound by venial fees,
Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees.

Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred

ties

Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, Subdued, composed, and formalized by art To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart?

The prayer for them whose hour is past

away

Says to the Living, profit while ye may!
A little part, and that the worst, he sees
Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the
keys

That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees.

Conscience, the timid being's inmost light,
Hope of the dawn and solace of the night,
Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray
In many an hour when judgment goes
astray.

Ah

scorn not hastily their rule who try Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify; Consume with zeal, in wingèd ecstasies Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees.

Yet none so prompt to succor and protect
The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked
On the bare coast; nor do they grudge the
boon'

Which staff and cockle hat and sandal

shoon

Claim for the pilgrim; and, though chidings sharp

May sometimes greet the strolling minstrel's harp,

Who with the ploughshare clove the barren moors,

And to green meadows changed the swampy shores?

Thinned the rank woods; and for the cheerful grange

Made room where wolf and boar were used to range?

Who taught, and showed by deeds, that gentler chains

Should bind the vassal to his lord's domains?

The thoughtful Monks, intent their God to please,

For Christ's dear sake, by human sympathies

Poured from the bosom of thy Church, St. Bees!

But all availed not; by a mandate given Through lawless will the Brotherhood was Forth from their cells; their ancient House driven

laid low

AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN.

BOLD words affirmed, in days when faith was strong

And doubts and scruples seldom teazed the brain,

That no adventurer's bark had power to gain

These shores if he approached them bent on wrong;

For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, Mists rose to hide the Land-that search, though long

And eager, might be still pursued in vain.
O Fancy, what an age was that for song!
That age, when not by laws inanimate,
As men believed, the waters were impelled,
The air controlled, the stars their courses
held;

But element and orb on acts did wait
Of Powers endued with visible form, in-
stinct

With will, and to their work by passion linked.

XIV.

DESIRE we past illusions to recall?
To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide
Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn
aside?

ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY, ISLE OF MAN.

"Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori." THE feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, Even when they rose to check or to repel Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well. Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn Just limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles adorn

This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence;

Blest work it is of love and innocence,
A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn.
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner,
Struggling for life, into its saving arms!
Spare, too, the human helpers! Do they
stir

'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die?

No; their dread service nerves the heart it warms,

And they are led by noble HILLARY.

XVI.

BY THE SEA-SHORE, ISLE OF MAN.
WHY stand we gazing on the sparkling
With wonder smit by its transparency
Brine,
And all-enraptured with its purity?—
Because the unstained, the clear, the crys-
talline.

Whether in gem, in water, or in sky,
Have ever in them something of benign;
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye
Of a young maiden, only not divine.
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm
For beverage drawn as from a mountain-
well.

Temptation centres in the liquid Calm;
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle