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NORTON, 1806—

But in the highest home of all
A bitter silence now must fall,
And sobbing hearts shall yearn in vain
To bring the Old Year back again.
Oh! then and now- last


and this
Father and Friend whose gifts they miss,
Husband whose kind and noble face
Hath vanish'd from the vacant place,-
What thoughts, what prayers, can lesser make
The anguish suffer'd for thy sake?

The Widow's wintry coif is there!
Its snowdrift hides her shining hair,-
And men may weep who now behold,
Remembering all its bands of gold
In her youth's high triumphal day,
Lit by the unexpected ray
Which still its gentle halo shows
Where Leslie's magic canvas glows;
When deck'd with sceptre and with globe,
And glittering in Dalmatian robe,
The girlish form knelt gently down,
To rise the wearer of a crown:
And o'er that spot where, old and good,
The mild Ecclesiastic stood,
To give, with his religious hand,
Her consecration of command,
And while reverberate shouts that hailed
England's new monarch, yet prevailed, -
A sunbeam like a glory fell
From Gothic arch and pinnacle,
As though it were God's blessing shed
Upon that reverent youthful head.

Bowed is that head !- bowed low once more!
But not as in the days of yore;
Not with the future opening bright
A dream of splendour to her sight;

Not where the shouting lieges crowd;
Alone-in grief–her head is bowed.
Her sad eyes watch the fire-light gleams ;
Her weary soul hath humbler dreams;
Roaming from Osborne's sengirt bowers,
By royal Windsor's moated towers,
To vaults where flowers lie, dark and dank :-

Gone! Gone !—fill up the blank !

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Oft have I seen, when wandering at times
Amongst the native forests of these climes,
A wounded oak, in which the woodsman left
His axe, o’ermastered by the closing cleft;
No strength could wrest it from its oaken sheath,
But, flinging o'er the foe its kuotty wreath,
The oak grew on, and towering over all
Bore in its heart the axe that sought its fall!
E'en so my friend—his faith had


above The iron in his soul, his early love. CCCLVIII. SELINA, LADY DUFFERIN, 1807

Oh! Bay of Dublin! my heart you're troublin',

Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream:
Like frozen fountains that the sun sets bubbling,

My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name. And never till its life-pulse ceases,

My earliest, latest thought you'll cease to be;
Oh! there's no one here knows how fair that place is,

And no one cares how dear it is to me.
Sweet Wicklow mountains! the sun-light, sleeping

On your green banks, is a picture rare;
You crowd around me, like young girls peeping,

And puzzling one to say which is most fair.
As though you'd see your own sweet faces

Refiected in that smooth and silver sea ; Oh! my blessin' on those lovely places,

Though no one cares how dear they are to me.

How often when at work I'm sitting,

And musing sadly on the days of yore, I think I see my Katie knitting,

And the childer playin' around the cabin door. I think I see the neighbours' faces

All gathered round their long-lost friend to see ; Oh! though no one here knows how fair that place is,

Heav'n knows how dear my poor home was to me. CCCLIX. H. WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW,

1807 -

Stars of the summer night!

Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light !

She sleeps ! my lady sleeps ! sleeps i
Moon of the summer night!

Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!

She sleeps ! my lady sleeps! sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!

Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light,

She sleeps ! my lady sleeps! sleeps !
Dreams of the summer night!

Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch! while in slumbers light
She sleeps ! my lady sleeps! sleeps !

I heard the trailing garments of the Night

Sweep through her marble halls !
I saw her sable

skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls !
I felt her presence, by its spell of might

Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

The manifold soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night

Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,

From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer,

Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair,

The best-beloved Night!

MORNING MELODY. I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees ; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high ; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguish'd each star: When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even ; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O’er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky: Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of heaven, To their far-away harbour, all silently driven ; Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night: When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or feari But when I steal silently over the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!



I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowers so fair,
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light;
Again would I view the old cottage so dear,
Where I sported a babe without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fair summer day.
I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh! 'tis tenderer yet.

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[Lord Houghton), 1809—

Believe not that


Can ever in just measure try
The worth of hours as they go by ;
For every man's weak self, alas !
Makes him to see them while they pass
As through a dim or tinted glass :
But if in earnest care you

Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after mood.
Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest, and ill content.
And more,-though free from seeming harm,
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from pleasure's charm-
If then a painful sense comes on,
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,-
Or something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be link'd again
By all mere Memory can retain,-

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