Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?-look down,
And construe on the slab before you,
"Hic jacet Gvlielmvs Brown,

Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.”

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

CCCLXXIII.

DIRGE FOR WOLFRAM.

IF thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep;

And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on thine eyelashes;

Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes

The rim o' the sun to-morrow,

In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;

'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And there alone, amid the beaming

Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her

In eastern sky.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

Victoria

CCCLXXIV

THE OLD STOIC.

RICHES I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn :

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me

Is "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,

'Tis all that I implore;

In life and death, a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.—Emily Brontë.

CCCLXXV.

THE SHANDON BELLS.

WITH deep affection,

And recollection,

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling around my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder

Where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine;

For memory dwelling

On each proud swelling

Of the belfry knelling

Its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon
Sound more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old "Adrian's Mole" in

Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame ;

But thy sounds were sweeter

Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly ;—

O! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on