Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near fort or bay, And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay.

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and su-
blime-

The image of Eternity-the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zon: Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending
ground,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no
relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,

Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to
hoard

Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did intrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must

Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise
seem'd

Like stars to shepherds eyes :-'twas but a meteor beam'd.

Wo unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,

Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'er-stung
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath
flung

Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late.

These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it; and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother-and now there!

How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy Sire's to his humblest subjects breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair,

Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.

TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE

WHITE.

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul,
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be,
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest :
But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

HEBREW MELODY.

SHE walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes :

Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
When thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

BORN 1798-died 1817.

THERE is a vigour and ripeness in the subjoined stanzas, which could scarcely be expected from the pen of a youth of eighteen, however highly gifted by nature: it was ripeness for immortality. The accomplished writer, Herbert Knowles of Canterbury, died in 1817, at the age of nineteen, near the place where these verses were composed.