O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,

On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

"Il est dans la Nature d'aimer à se livrer à l'idée même qu'on redoute." Corinne.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When Summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee!

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?—
O void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are,

When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

"The inviolate Island of the sage and free."-BYRON.

Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud,
Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam:
O! thus forever guard the land,
The sever'd land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines;
And music in the southern wind;
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome,-
Yes, all are glorious;—yet again
I bless thee, land of home!