IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE.

O, RECALL not the past, though this valley be fill'd
With all we remember, and all we regret;
The flowers of its summer have long been distill'd,
The essence has perish'd, ah! let us forget.
What avails it to mourn over hours that are gone,
O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst?
Alas! of the few that are lingering, none
Wear the light or the hues that encircled the
first.

Alas for the springtime! alas for our youth!
The grave has no slumber more cold than the
heart,

When languid and darken'd it sinks into truth, And sees the sweet colours of morning depart. Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave, But they cannot delude like the earlier light; We know that the twilight encircles the eve, And sunset is only the rainbow of night.

The sweet anxiety of fears,
Anxious for love's excess alone,
The fond reliance upon years
More precious to us than our own.

All past-then weeping words there came
From out a still and darken'd room,
They could not bear to name a name
Written so newly on the tomb.
They said he was so good and kind,
The voices sank, the eyes grew dim;
So much of love he left behind,

So much of life had died with him.

Ah, pity for the long beloved,
Ah, pity for the early dead;
The young, the promising, removed
Ere life a light or leaf had shed.
Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind,
The father, who within the tomb
Sees all life held most dear enshrined.

OLINTHUS GREGORY, LL.D., F.R.A.S., &c.

"THE following lines allude to Dr. Gregory's late domestic calamity. Mr. Boswell Gregory, his eldest son, was drowned by the boat's upsetting as he was returning home by water to his father's house at Woolwich."

Is there a spot where Pity's foot, Although unsandall'd, fears to tread, A silence where her voice is mute, Where tears, and only tears, are shed ? It is the desolated home,

Where Hope was yet a recent guest,
Where Hope again may never come,
Or come, and only speak of rest.

They gave my hand the pictured scroll,
And bade me only fancy there

A parent's agony of soul,

A parent's long and last despair;
The sunshine on the sudden wave,
Which closed above the youthful head,
Mocking the green and quiet grave,
Which waits the time appointed dead.

I thought upon the lone fireside,
Begirt with all familiar thought,
The future, where a father's pride

So much from present promise wrought;

CORFU.

Now, doth not summer's sunny smile
Sink soft o'er that Ionian isle,
While round the kindling waters sweep
The murmur'd music of the deep,
The many melodies that swell
From breaking wave and red-lipp'd shell ?

Love mine! how sweet it were to leave
This weary world of ours behind,
And borrow from the blushing eve
The wild wings of the wandering wind.
Would we not flee away and find
Some lonely cave beside the shore ?
One, where a Nereïd dwelt of yore,
And shelter'd in its glistening bowers,
A love almost as fond as ours?
A diamond spar incrusts the walls,
A rainbow light from crystal falls;
And, musical amid the gloom,
A fountain's silvery showers illume
The further darkness, as with ray
And song it finds its sparkling way.
A natural lute and lamp-a tone,
A light, to wilder waves unknown.
The cave is curtain'd with the vine,
And inside wandering branches twine,
While from the large green leaves escape
The blooming clusters of the grape ;-
Fruit with such hyacinthine glow
As southern sunbeams only know.

We will not leave it, till the moon
Lulls with her languid look the sea;
Sleep, shadow, silence for the noon,
But midnight Love to wake with thee,
When the sweet myrtle trees exhale
The odours of their blossoms pale,
And dim and purple colours steep
Those blossoms in their perfumed sleep;
Where closed are the cicala's wings,
And no leaf stirs, nor wild bird sings,
Lull'd by the dusk air, warm and sweet;
Then kneeling, dearest, at thy feet,
Thy face the only sight I see,

Thy voice the only sound I hear,
While midnight's moonlit mystery
Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere.
Then should thy own low whisper tell
Those ancient songs thou lovest so well;
Tales of old battles which are known
To me but from thy lip alone;
Dearer than if the bard again
Could sound his own imperial strain.
Ah, folly! of such dreaming hours,
That are not, that may not be ours.
Farewell! thou far Ionian isle
That lighted for my love awhile,
A sweet enchantment form'd to fade,
Of darker days my life is made;
Embittering my reality

With dreams of all that may not be.
Such fairy fancies when they part,
But leave behind a wither'd heart;
Dreaming o'er all it hath not known;
Alas! and is such heart mine own?

MANCHESTER.

Go back a century on the town,

That o'er yon crowded plain,

With wealth its dower, and art its crown,

Extends its proud domain.

Upon that plain a village stood,

Lonely, obscure, and poor;

The sullen stream roll'd its dull flood

Amid a barren moor.

Now, mark the hall, the church, the street,
The buildings of to-day;
Behold the thousands now that meet

Upon the peopled way.

Go, silent with the sense of power,
And of the mighty mind
Which thus can animate the hour,
And leave its work behind.

Go through that city, and behold
What intellect can yield,

How it brings forth an hundred-fold
From time's enduring field.

Those walls are fill'd with wealth, the spoil

Of industry and thought,

The mighty harvest which man's toil
Out of the past has wrought.

Science and labour here unite

The thoughtful and the real,

And here man's strength puts forth its might To work out man's ideal.

The useful is the element

Here labour'd by the mind, Which, on the active present bent, Invented and combined.

The product of that city, now
Far distant lands consume;
The Indian wears around his brow
The white webs of her loom.
Her vessels sweep from East to West;

Her merchants are like kings;
While wonders in her walls attest
The power that commerce brings.

From wealth hath sprung up nobler fruit,
Taste link'd with arts divine;
The Gallery and the Institute
Enlighten and refine.

And many an happy English home
With love and peace repays
The care that may be yet to come,
The toil of early days.

Had I to guide a stranger's eye
Around our glorious land,
Where yonder wondrous factories lie
I'd bid that stranger stand.
Let the wide city spread display'd
Beneath the morning sun,
And in it see for England's trade
What yonder town hath done.*

THE NIZAM'S DAUGHTER.

SHE is as yet a child in years,

Twelve springs are on her face, Yet in her slender form appears The woman's perfect grace.

Her silken hair, that glossy black,

But only to be found

DURHAM CATHEDRAL.

There, or upon the raven's back, Falls sweeping to the ground.

THOSE dark and silent aisles are fill'd with night, There breathes no murmur, and there shines no light;

The graves beneath the pavement yield their gloom,

'Tis parted in two shining braids

With silver and with gold,

And one large pearl by contrast aids
The darkness of each fold.

And, for she is so young, that flowers

Seem natural to her now,

There wreaths the champac's snowy showers Around her sculptured brow.

Close to her throat the silvery vest

By shining clasps is bound,

Scarce may her graceful shape be guest,
'Mid drapery floating round.

But the small curve of that vein'd throat,
Like marble, but more warm,

The fairy foot and hand denote

How perfect is the form.

Upon the ankle and the wrist
There is a band of gold,

No step by Grecian fountain kiss'd
Was of diviner mould.

In the bright girdle round her waist,
Where the red rubies shine,

The kandjar's glittering hilt is placed,
To mark her royal line.

Her face is like the moonlight pale,
Strangely and purely fair,
For never summer sun nor gale

Has touch'd the softness there.
There are no colours of the rose,
Alone the lip is red;

No blush disturbs the sweet repose
Which o'er that cheek is shed.

And yet the large black eyes, like night,
Have passion and have power;
Within their sleepy depths is light,
For some wild wakening hour.
A world of sad and tender dreams
'Neath those long lashes sleep,
A native pensiveness that seems
Too still and sweet to weep.

Of such seclusion know we naught;

Yet surely woman here

Grows shrouded from all common thought, More delicate and dear.

And love, thus made a thing apart,

Must seem the more divine,

When the sweet temple of the heart
Is a thrice veiled shrine.

* The kandjar is the small poniard worn by Hindoo princesses.

(37)

'Till the cathedral seems one mighty tomb.

The Cross invisible the words unseen

That tell where Faith and Hope in death have

been.

But day is breaking, and a rosy smile
Colours the depths of each sepulchral aisle.
The orient windows kindle with the morn,
And 'mid the darkness are their rainbows born;
Each ray that brightens, and each hue that falls,
Attest some sacred sign upon the walls;-
Some sculptured saint's pale head some graven

line

Of promise, precept, or belief divine:
Then sounds arise, the echoes bear along
Through the resounding aisles the choral song.
The billowy music of the organ sweeps,
Like the vast anthem of uplifted deeps;
The bells ring forth-the long dark night is done,
The sunshine of the Sabbath is begun.

What is that temple but a type sublime!
Such was the moral night of ancient time;
Cold and obscure, in vain the king and sage
Gave law and learning to the darken'd age.
There was no present faith, no future hope,
Earth bounded then the earth-drawn horoscope;
Till to the east there came the promised star-
Till rose the Sun of Righteousness afar-
Till, on a world redeem'd, the Saviour shone,
Earth for his footstool-Heaven for his throne.

COTTAGE COURTSHIP.

Now, out upon this smiling,
No smile shall meet his sight;
And a word of gay reviling
Is all he'll hear to-night,

For he'll hold my smiles too lightly,
If he always sees ne smile;
He'll think they shine more brightly
When I have frown'd awhile.

"Tis not kindness keeps a lover,
He must feel the chain he wears;
All the sweet enchantment's over,
When he has no anxious cares.
The heart would seem too common,
If he thought that heart his own;

Ah! the empire of a woman
Is still in the unknown.

26

i

LONG years have past since last I stood
Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dream'd,
How like my future it has been!
A cold gray sky o'erhung with clouds,
With showers in every passing shade,
How like the moral atmosphere

Whose gloom my horoscope has made!
I thought if yet my weary feet
Could rove my native hills again,
A world of feeling would revive,
Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain.
My early hopes, my early joys,

I dream'd those valleys would restore ; I ask'd for childhood to return,

For childhood, which returns no more.

Surely the scene itself is changed!
There did not always rest as now
That shadow in the valley's depth,
That gloom upon the mountain's brow.
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt

Like treasures in some fairy hold,
And morning o'er the mountains shed
Her kindling world of vapory gold.

Another season of the year

Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills-
No other spring mine own may be :
I must retune my unstrung heart,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,

I must recall the loved and lost,

Ere spring again for me could bloom.

I've wander'd, but it was in vain
In many a far and foreign clime
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.

SCENE IN BUNDELKHUND.

SHE sat beneath the palm tree, as the night Came with a purple shadow on the day, Which died away in hues of crimson shades, Blushes and tears. The wind amid the reeds, The long green reeds, sung mournfully, and shook Faint blossoms on the murmuring river's face. The eve was sweet and silent-she who sat Beneath the deepening shadow of the palm, Look'd like an ancient and a pastoral dream; Dreams-dreams indeed! It is man's actual lot That gives the future hope, and fills the past With happiness that is not-may not be. -0, tranquil earth and heaven-but their repose What influence hath it on the mourner there? Her eye is fix'd in terrible despair, Her lip is white with pain, and, spectre-like, Her shape is worn with famine-on her arm Rests a dead child-she does not weep for it. Two more are at her side, she'd weep for them, But that she is too desperate to weep: Dust has assumed dominion, she has now No tenderness, nor sweet solicitudes That fill the youthful mother with fond fears. Our fierce and cruel nature, that which sleeps In all, though lull'd by custom, law, and ease, In her is roused by suffering. There is death Within those wolfish eyes. Not for herself! Fear, the last vestige of humanity, Makes death so horrible that she will buy Its absence, though with blood-that blood her

own,

Once dearer that it ran in other veins:
She'll kill those children for they share her food.
AND SUCH IS HUMAN NATURE, AND OUR OWN."

ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE.

SILENT and still was the haunted stream, Feeble and faint was the moon's pale beam, And the wind that whisper'd the waving bough Was like the sound of some godless vow.

Far in the distance the waters fell
Foaming o'er many a pinnacle;
They waged with the crags an angry fight,
'Twas a dreary sound in the dead of night.

But the place where we stood was a quiet nook,
Like a secret page in nature's book;
Down at our feet was the midnight well,
Naught of its depths can the daylight tell.

An old oak tree grows near to the spot, Gray with moss of long years forgot; They say that the dead are sleeping below, 'Twas a shrine of the Druids ages ago.

One alone stood beside me there,
The dismal silence I could not bear;
A mariner wild from beyond the sea:
I wish that he had not been with me.

Over the gloomy well we hung,

And a long, long line with the lead we flung; And as the line and the hook we threw, Darker and darker the waters grew.

With gibe and jest that mariner stood,
Mocking the night of that gloomy flood;
Quoth he, "when the line brings its treasure up,
I'll drain a deep draught from the golden cup.

" I only wish it were fill'd with wine,
Water has little love of mine;
But the eyes I'll pledge will lend a glow,
They're the brightest and wickedest eyes I know.

"Though those eyes light up a cloister now, Little she recks of the veil and the vow; And let but the well yield its gold to-night, And St. Valerie's nun will soon take flight."

Black and more black the midnight grew, Black and more black was the water's hue; Then a ghastly sound on the silence broke, And I thought of the dead beneath the oak.

reach of the poorer classes, more particularly as there appears to be great difficulty in the way of finding employment. For some time they obtained a miserable subsistance on byers, a sort of astringent and acid berry; but even this wretched supply has now ceased. A most appalling and pitiable condition of human misery is the consequence. Mothers have been seen to devour the dead bodies of their own children!

"Thank God, thank God for light below, 'Tis the charm'd cup that is flashing now;" "No thanks to God," my comrade cries, ""Tis our own good skill that has won the prize."

There came a flash of terrible light,

And I saw that my comrade's face was white;
The golden cup rose up on a foam,

Then down it plunged to its mystical home.

Then all was night-and I may not tell
What agony there on my spirit fell;
But I pray'd for our Lady's grace as I lay,
And the pain and the darkness past away.

Years have past, yet that sinful man,
Though his hair is gray and his face is wan,
Keeps plunging his line in the gloom of that well;
He is under the Evil Spirit's spell.

'Twas the fairies carved that cup's bright mould,
What have we to do with their gold?
Now our Lady forgive my hour of sin,
That ever I sought that cup to win.*

WINDLESHAW ABBEY.

MARK you not yon sad procession,
'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom,
Hastening to the worm's possession,
To the dark and silent tomb!

See the velvet pall hangs over
Poor mortality's remains;
We should shudder to discover
What that coffin's space contains.

Death itself is lovely-wearing
But the colder shape of sleep;
Or the solemn statue bearing
Beauty that forbids to weep.

But decay-the pulses tremble
When its livid signs appear :
When the once-loved lips resemble
All we loathe, and all we fear.

Is it not a ghastly ending

For the body's godlike form, Thus to the damp earth descending, Food and triumph to the worm ?