Yet summon'd to be free at last,

We shrink and clasp our chain;

And fearfully and mournfully

We bid the earth farewell,

Though passing from its mists, like thee,
In a brighter world to dwell.

THE BOON OF MEMORY.

"Many things answered me."-Manfred.

I Go, I go!-and must mine image fade
From the green spots wherein my childhood play'd,
By my own streams?

Must my life part from each familiar place,
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace
Of its lone themes?

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met
In grief or glee ?

All the sweet counsel, the communion high,
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by,
Pour'd full and free?

A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give,

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore !

Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt,

Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt,
A thought restore!

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well,
In the dim brooding violet of the dell,

Set deep that thought!

And let the sunset's melancholy glow,

And let the Spring's first whisper, faint and low, With me be fraught!

And memory answer'd me :-" Wild wish and vain! I have no hues the loveliest to detain

In the heart's core.

The place they held in bosoms all their own,
Soon with new shadows fill'd, new flowers o'ergrown,
Is theirs no more."

Hast thou such power, O Love?—And Love re

plied,

"It is not mine! Pour out thy soul's full tide Of hope and trust,

Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain'Tis but to write with the heart's fiery rain, Wild words on dust!"

Song, is the gift with thee?—I ask a lay,
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away
From the still breast;

Fill'd with a tone-oh! not for deathless fame,
But a sweet haunting murmur of

Where it would rest.

my name,

And Song made answer

"It is not in me,

Though call'd immortal; though my gifts may be All but divine.

A place of lonely brightness I can give:

A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live

This is not mine!"

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ?
And Death, the Strong One, spoke :-" I can but still
Each vain regret.

What if forgotten?-All thy soul would crave,
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave,
Wilt soon forget."

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die,
As from all nature's voices one reply,

But one-was given.

"Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own

Seek it in Heaven."

DARTMOOR.

A PRIZE POEM.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.

May ne'er

That true succession fail of English hearts,
That can perceive, not less than heretofore
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive,

the charm

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.

CAMPBELL.

WORDSWORTH.

AMIDST the peopled and the regal Isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of power;
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne,
And mark'd a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore,
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore,
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent,
When empires totter'd, and the earth was rent;

Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still'd life's busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush'd with power in daring pride's excess,
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given;
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, 'midst thy mountains
rude,

Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,

As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky,

A mourner, circled with festivity!

For all beyond is life!-the rolling sea,

The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare,
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound,

As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wand'rer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,

And nought of life be near; his camel's tread
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands-
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd,
Not without record; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away.
The proud creations rear'd to brave decay.
But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name