Rich is the land, (all own its power,)

The land for which we part,

Italia-rich in every dower

Of nature and of art.

And rich in precious memories

From fragrant urns of classic lore.

more

But whether 'mid Etrurian bowers,

Where gallery spreads and palace towers;
Or where, beneath cerulean day,
Bright Naples clasps her double bay;
Or where steep-fallen Anio roves,

All peaceful now, thro' Tibur's groves;
On thee, contentment's happy home,

Land of bright stream and hill!

Fair Austrian land! where'er we roam,

Our hearts shall ponder still.

TO H. M. W.

ON READING HER POEMS.

BLEST is the bard, whose modest pride,
Unlured by vapour gleams of wit,
Still clings to nature as a guide

With following feet, that fear to quit.

And blest are they, who o'er life's road,
Too often treacherous or abrupt,
Tho' guile betray and malice goad,
Move kindly on and uncorrupt.

But doubly blessed is thy part,

Who, 'mid bad taste-bad world-still true,

Preserv'st simplicity of heart,

As woman, and as poet, too.

SONNET

WRITTEN AFTER HAVING READ A. F. RIO'S PETITE CHOUAUNERIE.

CALL not our Bretons backward. What if rude
Of speech and mien, and rude of fashion-drest;
Yet dwells firm faith beneath each simple vest;
With valiant heart, that scorns all servitude,
But to the Right. When France's fickler blood
Crouch'd to the crowned pageant of the day,
New-fangled homage These disdained to pay;
But kept old vows in truth and hardihood.
And with no surface-glare, no facet-light,

But the rich inward lustre of the gem,

When tried in shade, were yet more deeply bright.

And therefore, Traveller! call not backward- Them,

Found never yet, in worst extremity,

Backward to bear-nor backward when to die.

INSCRIPTION FOR AN EAGLE'S FOOT,

BROUGHT TO ENGLAND BY SIR CHARLES FELLOWS, AND NOW PART OF THE FURNITURE OF HIS LIBRARY TABLE.

ME-Lycia nursed amid her blaze of day;

Ere long, on strengthening plume I winged my way
To every peak around her mountain coast,
But o'er Phoenicus loved to hover most;
And watch, at eve, the ever-burning flame,
That from her storied summit quivering came.
Or stooped to scan, amid the valleys lone,
Once famous cities, now but fabling stone.
At last to earth down circling, all too nigh,
Chimera's birth place, Cragus, saw me die.-
What here remains was borne, on British prow,
By Xanthian Pilgrim-home. I serve him now.

SHYEST Lady!—say not so;

Say not you are growing old.
'Tis a tale that, well you know,
Fits me most if truly told.
Then, shy Lady! be more bold-
Say not you are growing old.

Bloomy faces, surface graces,

Pretty prattle, yea or nay;

Smiles all empty, meant to tempt ye,

These indeed may fade away.

But the smiles that beam from sense;

But the eyes' intelligence ;

But the voice with feeling fraught ;

But the word of serious thought;