To roam not, fervently beguiled

With all an angler's morning hopes,
Far where the stream is rippling mild,

Or where with cliff and cave it copes,—
To know that on the mountain tops
The spring is smiling fair and free,
Her ringlets beaded with the drops
Of dew, her bosom carelessly

Veil'd in white clouds,—to have no tree
Nor flower to cherish then, but lie
Regardless of all things that be-
This is to die-this is to die!

To quit the harp we loved, and strung
Erst on the moorland's lone domain,

And home-spun plaid that round us hung,
And flock that listen'd to our strain,
Woke 'mid the everlasting reign

Of solitude, where hopeful dreams

Studded the heart, and made the brain

Bright with their stars,—to leave the streams,

N

And mist-enshrouded rocks, where swims

The erne round heaven's eyebrow, and flowers, Among the heath-tufts, woo bright beams

To their young bosoms, through the showers That seem angelic tears in hours

When rainbows glorify the sky,

And find that these no more are ours―

This is to die-this is to die!

To have no aim amid the crowd-
No share with those that bustle past,
As if they deem'd that time were proud
To have such business done while last
They and their efforts-various-vast,-
To be 'mong loreless mortals set,

With none who ever knew thy cast,
Or, knowing, may it all forget,-

To know that cheerful minds are met

Where thou wert warmly ask'd to meet, Yet go not, and have no regret,

Though there be sung, in pipings sweet,

Thy favourite song, and fond hearts beat
And bask in beams of beauty's eye,—

To have no fair one thou wouldst greet-
This is to die-this is to die!

And then amid the night to dream

Of breathless worlds and changeless clouds, And buried men that still would seem

Alive among the worms and shrouds,

And moaning in their hopeless moods,-
To dream that those once loved the most
Are roaming 'mong unsettled crowds
Of wailing spirits, lorn and lost,-
To dream Destruction's step hath cross'd
This lone creation-that the rain

Is changed to blood, and wildly toss'd
Athwart the ether, and again

Grim phantoms greet thy startled brain,

While vainly thou essay'st to fly,

Twined in entanglements of pain

This is to die-this is to die!

Ay, this is life, and life is change,

And change is death-the sum of all! However mortals may arrange

Their homes and hearts, can they recall Youth's rough unconsecrated squall, Or ward that crisis age shall bring?

The whole's a deathbed, large or small! If some may have a merry spring And summer, these are on the wing

And passing, share them as they list,If man to aught 'neath heaven cling,

It is not what can make him bless'd ;
And so are found even here at best,

Love, hope, all feeling-all a lie

To breathe to reason—to exist

This is to die-this is to die!

THE SEA-GREY MAN.

THE raven sought the lofty trees

That stand upon the steep,

Where the shadows of the night came down,
And the winds were roaring deep,

And the torrent's flooded waterfalls
Were rolling white in foam,

When to our cottage in the glen
The sea-grey man came home.

One could have ween'd the staff he bore
Within his wither'd hand,

A fragment of the friendly oar

Which hove him back to land ;

His eye bespoke that deep-set thought
Which time no longer cheers;