Still came and linger'd on my sight
Of flowers and streams the bloom and light,
And glory of the stars and sun :-
And these and poetry are one.
They, ere the world had held me long,
Recall'd me to the love of song.
THEY talk of short-lived pleasures;-be it so,-
Pain dies as quickly, stern hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its
rays of peace. Oblivion softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes-did it keep
A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting.
Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain ;
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.
QUEEN of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way;
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may
have rest:
The sufferers of earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim, in this toiling scene!
THOMAS HOOD.
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born:
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn.
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day:
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday:
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees, dark and high;
I used to think their slender spires
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy,
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy!
BERNARD BARTON.
UPON his royal throne he sate,
In a monarch's thoughtful mood :
Attendants on his regal state,
His servile courtiers stood,
With foolish flatteries, false and vain, To win his smile, his favour gain.
They told him e'en the mighty deep
His kingly sway confess'd,
That he could bid its billows leap,
Or still its stormy breast.
He smiled contemptuously, and cried,
"Be then my boasted empire tried."
Down to the ocean's sounding shore
The proud procession came,
To see its billows' wild uproar,
King Canute's power proclaim;
Or, at his high and dread command,
In gentle murmurs kiss the strand.
Not so, thought he, their noble king,
As his course he seaward sped;
And each base slave, like a guilty thing,
Hung down his conscious head.
He knew the ocean's Lord on high!
They, that he scorn'd their senseless lie.
His throne was placed by ocean's side,
He lifted his sceptre there;
Bidding, with tones of kingly pride,
The waves their strife forbear:
And while he spoke his royal will,
All but the winds and waves were still!
Louder the stormy blast swept by,
In scorn of his idle word;
The briny deep its waves toss'd high,
By his mandate undeterr❜d,
As threatening in their angry play,
To sweep both king and court away.
The monarch, with upbraiding look,
Turn'd to the courtly ring,
But none the kindling eye could brook
E'en of his earthly king;
For in that wrathful glance they see
A mightier Monarch wrong'd than he!
Canute! thy regal race has run;
Thy name had pass'd away,
But for the meed this tale hath won,
Which never shall decay!
Its meek, unperishing renown
Outlasts thy sceptre and thy crown.
THE BOAST OF THE LOWLY.
THOMAS HARRISON.
No knightly name my fathers bore,
No deeds of blood or shame,
In moated tower, or tented field,
Uplifted them to fame.
In conscious dignity of soul
They did not shrink from toil;
They knew that manly hearts could dwell
In tillers of the soil.
Unknown they lived-they died unknown,
Save to the neighhouring few ;
Who, poor and humble as themselves,
Their thousand virtues knew:
Their truth-their honesty-their love-
And when their days had sped,
None were, who knew their living worth,
Who did not mourn them dead.
Rise, laurell'd warrior, conqueror, king!
Rise from thy sculptured tomb;
While shields and blood-stain'd banners hang
In fit sepulchral gloom!
Rise! count o'er all thy knightly deeds,
Whose fame doth still endure;
And say, canst thou make such a boast
As those forgotten poor?
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