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WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

Lines composed 21st February, 1827.

ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair—
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing-
And winter, slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar

flow.

Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may ;
For me ye
bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my

soul?

Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,

And hope without an object cannot live.

Coleridge.

BOOм, storm-bell!

Swing from thy rusted chain !

Boom away and away

Over the darkling main !

And I will walk with folded arms,

And I will walk alone,

And I will talk to the winds and the waves

Of the love that is over and gone.

Boom, storm-bell!

The mariner out in the foam,

Is thinking now of the winsome wife

And the rosy babes at home!

But I must pace by the running sea,

In the tempest all alone,

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PLEASURES OF HOPE.

And I must wail to the winds and the waves

For the love that is over and gone!

Boom, storm-bell!

Swing from thy rusted chain !

Boom away and away

Over the stormy main !

Across the winds a funeral knell

In the waves a weary moan

And in my heart a famishing cry

For the love that is over and gone.

E. J. Armstrong.

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep :
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul;
His native hills that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

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His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake and broomwood-blossomed vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind; Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace; Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear! And clasps with many a sigh his children dear! While, long neglected, but at length caressed, His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods and carnage-covered fields, When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, Halt ere they close and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil! As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, the spirit-speaking eye, Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum.

Thomas Campbell.

CLASP me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh!

think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust.

Half could I bear methinks to leave this earth,— And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none,