Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning play'd.
Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight!
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight!
In a new world they wake, as from the dead;
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled!

O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth,
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health!
Long, in this shelter'd scene of letter'd talk,
With sober step repeat the pensive walk;
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please,
The cheap amusements of a mind at ease;
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast,
And many an idle hour-not idly pass'd.

No tuneful echoes, ambush'd at my gate, Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. Vain of its various page, no Album breathes The sigh that friendship or the muse bequeaths. Yet some good genii o'er my hearth preside, Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide; And there I trace, when the gray evening lours, A silent chronicle of happier hours!

When Christmas revels in a world of snow,
And bids her berries blush, her carols flow;
His spangling shower when frost the wizard flings;
Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings,
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves,
And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves;
-Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues,
What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes,
Screen'd from the arrowy north; and duly hies
To meet the morning-rumour as it flies,
To range the murmuring market-place, and view
The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew.
When spring bursts forth in blossoms through
the vale,

And her wild music triumphs on the gale,
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile;
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,
Framing loose numbers, till declining day
Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray;
Till the west-wind leads on the twilight hours,
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers.

Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight,
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night.
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power!
Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour,
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen,
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene,
To hail our coming. Not a step profane
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain;
And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal'd,
Pure and unbought, the natives of my field;
While blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite,
Still clad in bloom, and veil'd in azure light ;-
With wine, as rich in years as Horace sings,
With water, clear as his own fountain flings,
The shifting sideboard plays its humbler part,
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art.

Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught With mental light, and luxury of thought, My life steals on; (Oh could it blend with thine!) Careless my course, yet not without design. So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, The light raft dropping with the silent tide;

So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night,
The busy people wing their various flight,
Culling unnumber'd sweets from nameless flowers,
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours.

Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play, Caught through St. James's groves a blush of day; Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, Though skill'd alike to dazzle and to please; Though each gay scene be search'd with anxiouseye, Nor thy shut door be pass'd without a sigh.

If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee,

explore;

Invoke the Lares of this loved retreat,
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet;
Then be it said, (as, vain of better days,
Some gray domestic prompts the partial praise,)
"Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest;
Reason his guide, and happiness his guest.
In the clear mirror of his moral page,
We trace the manners of a purer age.
His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught,
Scorn'd the false lustre of licentious thought.
-One fair asylum from the world he knew,
One chosen seat, that charms with various view!
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain)
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain.
Through each he roves, the tenant of a day,
And, with the swallow, wings the year away!"

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.

MAN is born to suffer. On the door Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild As of a mother singing to her child; All now in anguish from that room retire, Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, And innocence breathes contagion-all but one, But she who gave it birth-from her alone The medicine cup is taken. Through the night, And through the day, that with its dreary light Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Watching the changes with her anxious eye: While they without, listening below, above, (Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) From every little noise catch hope and fear, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness That would in vain the starting tear repress.

Such grief was ours-it seems but yesterdayWhen in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, "Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister's arms to die! Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame, And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came? And, when recall'd to join the blest above, Thou died'st a victim to exceeding love, Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, When idle fancy wove luxuriant flowers, Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee; And now I write-what thou shalt never see!

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

TWILIGHT'S soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. | Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. [hung, Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee, The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'T was here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.

Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feeling of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight! And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 't was heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time?

That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust;
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through
their dust,

Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond allusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!
How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene; The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green ! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that heaven assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke!-to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time'smeek twilightsteals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. [gray,

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams !

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed! [shade, Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and

fears,

To learn the colour of my future years!

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest!

'Twas all he gave, 't was all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight.

Buthark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! yetender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered ; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined! Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good! Blest Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. As studious Prospero's mysterious spell Drew every subject-spirit to his cell; Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And through the frame invisibly convey The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; Man's little universe at once o'ercast,

At once illumined when the cloud is past.

LOCH-LONG.

BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone,
Ben-Lomond in his glory shone,
When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Bore me from thy silver sands,
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, gray with age, the dial stands;
That dial so well known to me!
-Though many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead:
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain hold.

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last;
And, thy shady region pass'd,
Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood;
Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)
Where many an elf was playing round,
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant feet
Advancing as in haste to meet;
The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain;

All into midnight shadow sweep-
When day springs upward from the deep!
Kindling the waters in its flight,
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads to friendship and to thee!

Oh, blest retreat and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her-the Lady of the Glen!

GINEVRA.

Ir ever you should come to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broider'd with flowers and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Along it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,

With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That, by the way it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child-her name Ginevra;
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy, but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd.
But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Donati lived and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find-he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" "T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an einerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

THE FOUR ERAS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noontide harmony;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their pray'r,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years and then these sounds shall
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

[hail

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine:
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""T was on these knees he sate so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been ; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

DON GARZIA.

Well might De Thou,

AMONG the awful forms that stand assembled In the great square of Florence, may be seen That Cosmo, not the father of his country, Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant. Clad in rich armour like a paladin, But with his helmet off, in kingly state, Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass; And they who read the legend underneath Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls Could speak and tell of what is done within, Would turn your admiration into pity. Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest, All he discover'd when the fit was on, All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd From broken sentences, and starts in sleep, Is told, and by an honest chronicler.

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, (The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer,) Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni, His best beloved, the glory of his house, Return'd not; and at close of day was found Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; And, having caused the body to be borne In secret to that chamber, at an hour When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother, Who little thought of what was yet to come, And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand A winking lamp, and in the other a key Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led; And, having entered in and lock'd the door, The father fix'd his eyes upon the son, And closely question'd him. No change betray'd Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up

The bloody sheet. "Look there! Look there!" he cried,

"Blood calls for blood and from a father's hand! Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. "What!" he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the

sight,

The boy breathed out, "I stood but on my guard." "Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wrong'd thee,

Who would not set his foot upon a worm?
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all."
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood;

When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The ancient palace-through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop awhile to dwell
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall
Together, as of two in bonds of love,
One in a cardinal's habit, one in black,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew,
The terrible truth.

Well might he heave a sigh

For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf, and inarticulate,

Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale;
His wife, another, not his Eleanora,

At once his nurse and his interpreter.

THE FOUNTAIN.

It was a well

Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture-in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honour'd with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock fill'd, overflow'd it;
Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees; discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down; admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a child a-Maying.

The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approach'd
The hour for stir and village-gossip there,
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear'd,
Appear'd and vanish'd, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.

At length there came the loveliest of them all,

And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them
With.the pure element, gave him to drink;
And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tip-
Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, [toe,
Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue.

Then, hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endow'd them with immortal youth;
And they had evermore lived undivided,
Winning all hearts of all thy works the fairest.