Thy taws are brave! — thy tops are rare!
Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight!
The Elgin marbles are but tame,

And 't is at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead

Like balls with no rebound!

And often with a faded eye

We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!

Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou 'lt find thy manhood all too fast,
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
A sorry breaking up!

Thomas Hood.

WHEN

Clevedon.

HALLAM'S GRAVE.

HEN on my bed the moonlight falls,
I know that in thy place of rest

By that broad water of the west,
There comes a glory on the walls:

Thy marble bright in dark appears,
As slowly steals a silver flame
Along the letters of thy name,
And o'er the number of thy years.

The mystic glory swims away;

From off my bed the moonlight dies;
And closing eaves of wearied eyes
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray:

And then I know the mist is drawn
A lucid veil from coast to coast,
And in the chancel like a ghost
Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height; The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme, Untune the distant churches' mellow chime; As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps, And shake above our heads the craggy steeps. Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower While light and darkness seize the changeful oar;

The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea.
Then join my friends, and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve.

Walter Savage Landor.

THE BRIDGE BETWEEN CLIFTON AND LEIGH WOODS.

FROWN
VN ever opposite, the angel cried,

Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand, Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand Severed forever! The vast ocean-tide,

Leaving its roar without at his command,
Shrank, and beneath the woods through the green land
Went gently murmuring on, so to deride
The frowning barriers that its force defied!
But Art, high o'er the trailing smoke below
Of sea-bound steamer, on yon summit's head
Sat musing; and where scarce a wandering crow
Sailed o'er the chasm, in thought a highway led;
Conquering, as by an arrow from a bow,
The scene's lone genius by her elfin-thread.

William Lisle Bowles.

'T

Clovelly.

CLOVELLY.

IS eve! 't is glimmering eve! how fair the scene, Touched by the soft hues of the dreamy west! Dim hills afar, and happy vales between,

With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest: Beneath, the sea! by Eve's fond gale caressed,

Mid groves of living green that fringe its side; Dark sails that gleam on ocean's heaving breast From the glad fisher-barks that homeward glide, To make Clovelly's shores at pleasant evening-tide.

Hearken! the mingling sounds of earth and sea,
The pastoral music of the bleating flock,
Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody,

The waves' deep murmur to the unheeding rock; And ever and anon the impatient shock

Of some strong billow on the sounding shore: And hark! the rowers' deep and well-known stroke, Glad hearts are there, and joyful hands once more Furrow the whitening wave with their returning oar.

But turn where Art with votive hand hath twined
A living wreath for Nature's grateful brow,
Where the lone wanderer's raptured footsteps wind
Mid rock, and glancing stream, and shadowy bough ;
Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow

The intruding sunbeam in their shade to dwell, There doth the seamaid breathe her human vow, So village maidens in their envy tell,

Won from her dark-blue home by that alluring dell.

A softer beauty floats along the sky,

The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless wave; Far off, the night-winds steal away and die,

Or sleep in music in their ocean cave:

Tall oaks, whose strength the giant-storm might brave,
Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea;
Nor can yon mountain raun forbear to lave
Her blushing clusters where the waters be,
Murmuring around her home such touching melody.

Thou, quaint Clovelly! in thy shades of rest,
When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped,
Or Summer pours from her redundant breast
All fruits and flowers along thy valley's bed:
Yes! and when Autumn's golden glories spread,
Till we forget near Winter's withering rage,
What fairer path shall woo the wanderer's tread,
Soothe wearied hope and worn regret assuage?
Lo! for firm youth a bower, a home for lapsing age.
Robert Stephen Hawker.