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LEEP!—we give thee to the wave,

red with life-blood from the brave: thou shalt find a noble grave:

fare thee well !

Sleep! thy billowy field is won,
proudly may the funeral gun,
midst the hush at set of sun,

boom thy knell !

Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
never there may flower be shed,
marble reared, or brother's head

bowed to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea,
borne through battle high and free,
long the red-cross flag shall be;

sleep ! oh, sleep!




RIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled,

ere one grief had bowed thy head!

brightly didst thou part !
with thy young thoughts pure from spot,
with thy fond love wasted not,

with thy bounding heart.

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,

ere with dust o’erspread:
lilies ne'er by tempest blown,
white rose which no stain hath known,

be about thee shem!

So we give thee to the earth,
and the primrose shall have birth

o'er thy gentle head;
thou that, like a dewdrop borne
on a sudden breeze of morn,

brightly thus hast fled !




O bitter tears for thee be shed,


with flowers alone we strew thy bed,

O blest departed One!
whose all of life, a rosy ray,
blushed into dawn and passed away.
We rear no marble o'er thy tomb;
no sculptured image there shall mourn:
ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance and flowers and dews must be
the only emblems meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
adorned with Nature's brightest wreath;
each glowing season shall combine

its incense there to breathe;
and oft, upon the midnight air,
shall viewless harps be murmuring there.


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THOU by heaven ordained to be

arbitress of man's destiny ! from thy sweet lip one tender sigh, one glance from thine approving eye, can raise or bend him at thy will, to virtue's noblest flights or worst extremes of ill! Be angel-minded ! and despise thy sex's little vanities ; and let not passion's lawless tide thy better purpose sweep aside; for woe awaits the evil hour that tends to man's annoy thy heaven-entrusted power. Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart from every gross, unholy part ; thine, in domestic solitude, to win him to be wise and good; his pattern guide and friend to be, to give him back the heaven he forfeited for thee.

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F wine and music have the power

to ease the sickness of the soul ;
let Phæbus every string explore,
and Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl:
let them their friendly aid employ
to make my Cloe's absence light;
and seek for pleasure, to destroy
the sorrow of this lifelong night.

But she to-morrow will return,
Venus, be thou to-morrow great;
thy myrtles strew, thy odours burn;
and meet thy favourite nymph in state.
Kind goddess, to no other powers
let us to-morrow's blessings own:
thy darling loves shall guide the hours,
and all the day be thine alone.





THOUGH rude winds usher thee, sweet day,

though clouds thy face deform,
though nature's grace is swept away
before thy sleety storm ;
ev'n in thy sombrest wintry vest,
of blessed days thou art most blest.
Nor frigid air nor gloomy morn
shall check our jubilee;
bright is the day when Christ was born,
no sun need shine but He;
let roughest storms their coldest blow,
with love of Him our hearts shall glow.
Oft, as this joyous morn doth come
to speak our Saviour's love,
oh, may it bear our spirits home,
where He now reigns above;
that day which brought Him from the skies,
and man restores to Paradise !




TAR that bringest home the bee,


if any star shed peace, 'tis Thou

that send'st it from above,
appearing when Heaven's breath and brow

are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,
whilst the landscape's odours rise,
whilst far-off lowing herds are heard

and songs when toil is done,
from cottages whose smoke unstirr'd

curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,
parted lovers on thee muse;
their remembrancer in Heaven

of thrilling vows thou art,
too delicious to be riven
by absence from the heart.


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from age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, and Place and Time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; the only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, if but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; if but a beam of sober Reason play, lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! but can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? these, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, pour round her path a stream of living light; and gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest !



THAT man in his wits had not rather be poor,

than for lucre his freedom to give;
ever busy the means of his life to secure,

and so ever neglecting to live!
Environ'd from morning to night in a crowd,

not a moment unbent, or alone;
constrain'd to be abject, though never so proud,

and at every one's call but his own!
Still repining and longing for quiet each hour,

yet studiously flying it still ;
with the means of enjoying his wish in his power,

but accurst with his wanting the will! For a year must be past or a day must be come,

before he has leisure to rest: he must add to his store this or that pretty sum,

and then will have time to be blest.
But his gains, more bewitching the more they increase,

only swell the desire of his eye:
such a wretch let mine enemy live, if he please,

but not even my enemy die.

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