"Twas so with him in office close and dun

Full soon he learn'd the needful lore of trade; Skill'd to compute how much the bargain won, And ponder hard if more might have been made.

But not the spirit of the world which grew
Still more and more beyond the state's control,
Could quench his thirst of beauty or subdue
The love of Nature which possess'd his soul.

So he became a dweller of the hills,

And learned to love the village ways so well, He prized the stream that turned the wealthiest mills Less than the syke that trickles down the fell.

III.

Sad doth it seem, but nought is truly sad,
Or only sad that we may better be;
We should in very gulphs of grief be glad,
The great intents of God could we but see.

Think of the souls that he in heaven will meet, Some that on earth he knew and loved most dearly;

And whose perfection at their Saviour's feet,

Without a stain of earth, will shine so clearly.

Think, too, of souls on earth unknown to him,
Whom he will know as well as kin or neighbours-

Laborious saints, that now with seraphim

Expect the blessed fruit of all their labours.

Think that he is what oft he wished to be
While yet he was a mortal man on earth;
Then weep, but know that grief's extremity
Contains a hope which never was in mirth.

June, 1845.

VOL. II.

TO A LADY,

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

SARA, -so let me call thee, since that name
Is most familiar to thy friendly ear,

And for a mother that is now no more,
And for a sister passing dear to me—
Long time it seems since thou and I have spoke
In verse or honest prose, or, happier still,
With running comment of looks, lips, and eyes,
And silence, when our mutual thought was heard,
Discoursed by mute and secret sympathy,
Interpreted by some half-melting star,

That seemed a part of twilight, or akin
To the retiring, pensive, tawny hill,

So dim reflected in the dozing lake,

It wot not of its presence ;-lake once proud
Of diamonds dripping from thy silvery oar,
When thou, thy boat, and its long-beaded wake,
Seem'd like the shadow of a Glendoveer,

Floating above in smallest skiff of heaven,—

So shy, he would and yet would not be seen.

Those times are past,—and I have known thee tamed To sober womanhood and matron grave,

Yet like the ever-glad Hesperian tree,

Whose summer fruitage gleams through vernal flowers;
And I have seen thee, too, in double grief

For two pure souls removed, so like each other,
They may be playmates in the bowers of bliss,-
For souls like theirs receive no taint of time.
And who can doubt that each fine faculty,
But half-developed in the prophet spring
Of thy sweet Katherine's little life, shall bloom
In God's own light, consummate and fulfilled?

*

0 2

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON,

LATE OF LOW WOOD INN, WHO DIED BY A FALL FROM AN APPLE TREE.

THERE is the lake and there the quiet hills,
A casual passer would observe no change;
Nor sign would see of widow's grief that kills
Even Nature's joy, and makes old beauty strange.

The last time I beheld thee, lovely lake,

Thou wert composed in that expectant calm, Which any sigh of love-sick maid might shake, Or dying close of penitential psalm.

I thought of Death. Who doth not think of Death? And felt how sweet a boon that death might be, Were it indeed a calm to feel the breath

Whene'er it came of stirring Deity.