The silver sounding instruments did meet
With the bass murmur of the water's fall;
The water's fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.


DEVOURING Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the Earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived Phænix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as there fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ;
Her in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

By the Rev. R. C. TRENCH.

Oh, drinking deep of slumber's holy wine,

Whence may the smile that lights thy countenance be ? We seek in vain the mystery divine;

For in thy dim unconscious infancy
No games as yet, no play-fellows are thine,

To stir in waking hours such thoughts of glee,
As recollected in thine innocent dream
Might shed across thy face a happy gleam.
It may be, though small notice thou canst take,

Thou feelest that an atmosphere of love
Is ever round thee, sleeping or awake :

Thou wakest, and kind faces from above

Bend o'er thee-when thou sleepest, for thy sake

All sounds are hush’d, and each doth gently move :
And this dim consciousness of tender care
Has caused thy cheek this light of joy to wear.

Or it may be, thoughts deeper than we deem

Visit an infant's slumbers—God is near, Angels are talking to them in their dream,

Angelic voices whispering sweet and clear; And round them lies that region's holy gleam,

But newly left, and light which is not here: And thus has come that smile upon thy fare, At tidings brought thee froin thy native place.

But whatsoe'er the causes which beguiled

That dimple on thy countenance, it is gone; Fair is the lake disturb'd by ripple mild,

But not less fair when ripple it has none:
And now what deep repose is thine, dear child,

What smoothness thy unruffled cheek has won !
Oh! who that gazed upon thee could forbear
The silent breathing of an heart-felt prayer!


A truly classical composition by Keats. Thou still unravish'd bride of Quietness!

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ?
Wbat little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ;

Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, “ Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."


A DISINHERITED SON. O father, father! must I have no father! To think how I shall please; to pray for him, To spread his virtues out before my thought, And set my soul in order after them ? To dream, and talk of in my dreaming sleep? If I have children, and they question me Of him who was to me as I to them ; Who taught me love, and sports, and childish lore; Placed smiles where tears had been ; who bent his talk, That it might enter my low apprehension, And laugh'd when words were lost.


To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given ;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to Heaven.



This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.


I love to meditate on bliss to come,
Not that I am unhappy here, but that
The hope of higher bliss may rectify
The lower feeling which we now enjoy ;
This life, this world, is not enough for us ;
They are nothing to the measure of our minds.


The life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretel the ending of mortality.



I have seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell;
To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul
Listen’d intensely; and his countenance soon
Brighten'd with joy; for murmurings from within
Were heard,-sonorous cadences, whereby,
To his belief, the monitor express'd
Mysterious union with its native sea.


They sin who tell us love can die :
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell :
Earthly these passions, as of earth,
They perish where they have their birth.
But love is indestructible;
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth ;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in Heaven its perfect rest.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high,
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight ? SOUTHEY.

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