Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains;
One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains.
But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom?
See, left but life enough and breathing-room
The hunger and the hope of life to feel,
Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom,
And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel,

From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal.

Is this Improvement?-where the human breed
Degenerates as they swarm and overflow,
Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed,
And man competes with man, like foe with foe,
Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe?
Improvement!—smiles it in the poor man's eyes,
Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour ?-No-
To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize,
We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies.

Nor call that evil slight; God has not given
This passion to the heart of man in vain,

For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven,
And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.

For not alone our frame imbibes a stain
From fœtid skies; the spirit's healthy pride
Fades in their gloom-And therefore I complain,

That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide,
My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde !

THE "NAME UNKNOWN;"

IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the Name Unknown,'
Ordained to bless my charmed soul,
And all my future fate controul,

Unrivalled and alone?

Delicious Idol of my thought!
Though sylph or spirit hath not taught
My boding heart thy precious name ;

Yet musing on my distant fate,

To charms unseen I consecrate
A visionary flame.

Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye,
Thy virgin voice of melody,

Are ever present to my heart;

Thy murmured vows shall yet be mine,
My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,
And never, never part!

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing,
Till Love the viewless treasure bring;
While I, like conscious Athens, own

A power in mystic silence sealed,
A guardian angel unrevealed,

And bless the Name Unknown!'

IN the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,

Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climbed to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamped him of old, With his bowmen and knights,

And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror's side

There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,

In pavilion wide;

And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead

Stood the captors of England's domains,
That ennobled her breed

And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm

As the sun's setting splendour was thrown,
Thence they looked o'er a realm—
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

FAREWELL TO LOVE.

I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain; But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn

anew,

I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu!

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway

Is now to me a star that's fallen--a dream that's passed away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul! The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore,

Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er.

Why say they Angels feel the flame?-Oh, spirits of the skies! Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?

Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,

That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.