But thou art swelling on, thou deep!
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;

And the still midnight hears the sound,
Even as first it rolled.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,

Where sceptred cities rose!

Thou speakest of One who doth not change-
So may our hearts repose.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA russell.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
Midst the echoes, of long-lost melodies,

And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it while thou art there, Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?

Is it not spring that indeed breathes free

And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine-

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,

To have lingered before thee, and turned, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,

In Roncesvalles' dell,

With England's blood, the southern vineyards laving— Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be poured!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
Our brethren of the sword!

HAUNTED GROUND.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever-it may be a sound,

A tone of music, summer eve, or spring,

A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound,

Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound."

YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not-for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells,
And loved and sorrowed, and heard farewells,
And learned in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?

Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows-yet unto which life seemed bound;
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?

Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought;
Love, with its passionate visions fraught;
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round;
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?

Are there no phantoms, but such as come

BYRON.

By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!

But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,

And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.

Away, away!-that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast

The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.

Doubt it not-smile not-but go thou, too,

Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew—
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother's knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade.

Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,

Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the Red Indian lays his father's dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,

To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reached the panther's lair,
And where art thou?-thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won-
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done-
They hear the tales of old-but where art thou?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is filled that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,

E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide.

But will this be? and canst thou here find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear

From the savannah-land, the land of streams? Hearest thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hear them not! hear them not !-thou canst not find

In the far wilderness what once was thine!

Thou hast quaffed knowledge from the founts of mind, And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine,

Thou knowest the soaring thought, the immortal strain— Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF

IN the full tide of melody and mirth,

While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.

Forget him not, for many a festal hour,

Charmed by those strains for us has lightly flown: And memory's visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone.

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays
Revive life's morning dreams, when youth is fled,

And, fraught with images of other days,

Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew
Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom-
Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw
Bright gleams, "like angel visits," o'er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

YES! thou hast met the sun's last smile
From the haunted hills of Rome;

By many a bright Ægean isle

Thou hast seen the billows foam.

From the silence of the Pyramid,

Thou hast watched the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below.

Thy heart hath burned, as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,

Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain.

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,

With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.

But go

thou to the pastoral vales
Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind's deep whispers told !

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread
Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto heaven.

For o'er the snows, and round the pines,
Hath swept a noble flood;
The nurture of the peasant's vines
Hath been the martyr's blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,

Through all the heroic region poured,
Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep

Of long-enduring faith,

And the sounding streams glad record keep
Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant where his sires

For truth and freedom bled?

Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,

Where lay the holy dead!

And he will tell thee, all around,
On fount, and turf, and stone,

Far as the chamois' foot can bound,
Their ashes have been sown!

1

Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard 1

Up through the wilds to float,

When the dark old woods and caves are stirred
To gladness by the note;

1 See GILLY'S Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air,