A pathway to that still retreat

Through many a myrtle wound, And there a sight-how strangely sweet! My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
E'en at the threshold made,
As if to sleep through sultry hours,
A young fair child was laid.

To sleep?-oh! ne'er, on childhood's eye
And silken lashes press'd,

Did the warm living slumber lie
With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheeks' pure marble dyed"Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Through roses heap'd beside.

I stoop'd-the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lips' breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still-
The lovely child was dead!

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a woe, to cling

Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low-
I turn'd, and near me sate

A woman with a mourner's brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,

All solemnly serene,

A shadow'd image I could trace
Of that young slumberer's mien.

"Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said

With lips that faintly smiled, "As here I watch beside my dead, My fair and precious child.

"But know, the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to heaven!"

THE KAISER'S FEAST.

[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to Germany; and, by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened."-Miss Benger's Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia.]

THE Kaiser feasted in his hall-
The red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall

To the peals of minstrelsy:
And many a gleam and sparkle came
From the armour hung around,

As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown'd.

Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper's hand?
And suddenly from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail band?

The strings were hush'd-the knights made way
For the queenly mother's tread,
As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-hair'd boys she led.

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Flush'd the proud warrior-blood:
And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
"Wherefore this mourning vest?
And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?"

"Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line
In each fair little one!
Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-
Thy brother's children see!

"And where is he, thy brother-where? He in thy home that grew, And smiling, with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow!

Yet take me to thy rest!

There dwells no fear with love; Let me slumber on thy breast,

While the billow rolls above!

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home,

We will sleep among the ocean's dead. Stay for me, stay!-I come!"

There was a sullen plunge below,

A flashing on the main;

And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woeShut, and grew still again.

TO WORDSWORTH.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices,-by the source [fills
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with ine, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, link'd with household words; While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy !-thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.

[These verses, addressed "To the Author of the Excursion and the Lyrical Ballads," first appeared in the Literary Magnet for April 1826-a clever and tasteful periodical at that time conducted by Mr Alaric A. Watts who appended to it the following complimentary editorial note:

"We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr W.'s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty of the tribute."

The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs Hemans in one of her letters to her accomplished and deeply attached friend, Miss Jewsbury-at whose recommendation the writings of the great poet of the Lakes had become an earnest study with our author, and with what advantage, her compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently testify. In the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow these obligations.

"The inclosed lines," she says" an effusion of deep and sincere admiration-will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and I hope I may say advantage, which you have been the means of imparting, by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of Wordsworth's Miscellaneous Poems. It has opened to me such a treasure of thought and feeling, that I shall always associate your name with some of my pleasantest recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of what I can only regret should have been so long a Yarrow unvisited.' I would not write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I had really studied these poems, and they have been the daily food of my mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any scene of a happy, though serious, domestic life, or any mood of a reflective mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of them does not beautifully harmonise. This author is the true poet of home, and of all the lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home affections. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces which have any reference to political interest, remind me of the spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of William Tell-a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, breaking forth into fiery and indignant eloquence when the sanctity of his hearth is invaded. Then what power Wordsworth condenses into single lines, like Lord Byron's curdling a long life into one hour!'

The still, sad music of humanity-
The river glideth at his own sweet will’—

'Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods'—

and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines quite haunt me: and I have a strange feeling, as if I must have known them in my childhood; they come over me so like old melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites among so many things that delight me; but I think The Narrow Glen,' the Lines on Corra Linn,' the Song for the Feast of Brougham Castle,'' Yarrow Visited,' and The Cuckoo,' are among those which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur most frequently to memory.

"I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention the Ecclesiastical Sketches, which I have read, and do constantly read, with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon you, and develops as you study it, like that of the old pictures by the Italian masters."]