ANGEL VISITS.

"No more of talk where God or angel guest,
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast."

ARE ye for ever to your skies departed?

MILTON.

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore?
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And ye-our faded earth beholds you not!

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wandered from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace,
And worshiped awe-struck, in that fearful place.
By Chebar's1 brook ye passed, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,

'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done.
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son?
-Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains,
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was yours! Your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by the unsealed sepulchral stone,

In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,

That He they sought had triumphed, and was gone.

Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ;
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over,

1 Ezek. x.

When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met;
Are ye not near, when faith and hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill ;
One, One is near--a spirit holier still!

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED
CASTLE OF Rheinfels, ON THE RHINE.

OH! how could Fancy crown with thee
In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,

Where song's full notes once pealed around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains
Around the victor's tent.

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair;

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry!

And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine

To wave where banners waved of yore,

O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanished race—
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed, and left no trace.
But there thou art !-thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!

Tis still the same! Where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see-
The marvels of all ages fled

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August, in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass-thou ivy never sere !1_
And all is thine at length!

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

WHERE sucks the bee now? Summer is flying,
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying;
Violets are gone from their grassy dell,

With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath passed away-

Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled

Ever around thee, my gentle child!

Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,

And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.

Roses may vanish, but this will stay

Happy and bright is thy natal day!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

THOU wakest from rosy sleep, to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye:

Long be it thus !-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

1 "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.'

LYCIDAS.

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs.

So, in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,

When strength hath bowed to evil years,
He will remember thee!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

FEAR was within the tossing bark
When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea-Be still!

And the wind ceased-it ceased! that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast;

They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep
When sultry day is past.

O Thou that in its wildest hour
Didst rule the tempest's mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power,
Soft on our souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride
Thy mandate to fulfil!

Oh, speak to passion's raging tide,
Speak, and say, Peace be still!"

EPITAPH

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.

THOU, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy,
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee,

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy,

Come to this tomb !-it hath a voice for thee! Pray! Thou art blest-ask strength for sorrow's hour: Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold
All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth,
All the mind's treasures silently unfold,

Look on this tomb!-for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath sealed the fount of hope he gave.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.

EARTH! guard what here we lay in holy trust,
That which hath left our home a darkened place,
Wanting the form, the smile, now veiled with dust,
The light departed with our loveliest face.

Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is free-
We have but lent the beautiful to thee.

But thou, O Heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken,
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ;
The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy-

Guide us where these are with our sister flown-
They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thine own!

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea!
For ever and the same;

The ancient rocks yet ring to thee-
Those thunders nought can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hushed is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore
Along the wave, is still;

The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion's awful hill.

The Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord

That breathed the mystic tone;

And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured,

Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn that rang

O'er stream and mountain free;

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang

Hath died in Galilee.