Wanton boys on windy hill-tops,
Calling to their mates beneath,
As they chased the timid fieldfare,
Or the hare across the heath?

Here, where Nature, wan and phrenzied, Flashes round us all the day,

And the very springs of motion

Help to cause their own decay;
When the frame is slack and nerveless,
From the poison of the air,

And the Soul can scarce remember
That the works of God are fair;

Soon the mental vision, wearied,
Learns to see His wrath at hand,
And a red destroyer Angel

Dealing death about the land:
Every plague a dispensation,
Every thunder-clap a knell;
Miserable life but fostered
For procrastinating Hell.

When Death strikes our bosom's dearest,
When he takes our ancient foes,
Soul and body, worn and wildered,
Sink into a grim repose.
Happier far an English Peasant,

With a true young-hearted Wife;

With a master, not despotic,

And the needful props of life;

And the knowledge of a Maker,
Merciful as well as just,

Who would not have given burthens
Greater than its strength to Dust;
Who would not have sent his Dearest
For the sins of men to die,

If he had not many mansions,
Differing exceedingly.

Knowledge waxes, and the matter
May be shortly understood,
In His sight how little differ
Very bad and very good:
In the good is much of evil,

In the bad are germs of good,
Man may not prepare the furnace,
Nor condemn the sapless wood.

I have seen the old, proud-hearted,
Withering in a web of Creeds,
Self-appointed Saints, condemning
Other men's unfathomed deeds;
I have seen the young and gallant
Die before the frosts begin,
Full of true and tender yearnings,
'Mid the common curse of sin.

Yet if so they went to Judgment,

Any one could see full well,
One would much embitter Heaven,
And the other sweeten Hell.
Them no bigot's ipse dixit

Now molests; they slumber well:
Oh let each, though sorely straitened,
Strive to hope and do the best;
Hope to enter, weary wanderer,
Into everlasting rest.

TO MY DAUGHTER.

AIR. Wrap thy auld cloak," &c.
Virtute te involvas.

SWEET Rose, thy bloom, when I am gone,
Will surely tempt the beam of day,
And haply in an hour when none

Can be thy shelter or thy stay,
In such an hour, oh! think of me,
And think of him who bade thee be,
“In maiden musing, fancy-free,"
And take thy virtue about thee.

For life is mixed of good and ill,

Is sometimes labour, sometimes rest;

If sorrow come from want of will,

Yet strength of will may make us blest.

And if that will indeed be free,

Be these my latest words to thee,
That, various as thy fate may be,
Thou take thy virtue about thee.

Soon may we cease to wish, to weep,

To take the ill, let slip the good,
And, ere we lay us down to sleep,

Look on Creation as we should-
And thus may'st thou at length be free,
And meet the Fate thou can'st not see,
In hope, but not presumingly,
Taking thy virtue about thee.

A FAREWELL.

SLEEP, sleep, my early hopes and fears;
For you, by you I watch alway;

Sleep, hidden in the night of years,

Till death shall bring your dawning day.

Sleep, though when Memory stirs your rest
With feverish uneasy motion,

I fain would fling you from my breast
To deep oblivion's dream-lulled ocean.

Sleep, innocent of shame or guile;

By you I needs must watch alway;

So softly rest you here awhile,

Till Death shall bring your endless day.

THE BRIDEGROOM.

THE moon yet strives with dawn

Which shall throw a shadow

Through mists that lie all lightly on the lawn,
Heavily on the wide and watery meadow.

Not long the golden morning

Gains every moment ground;
The dying night-star scorning-

Hark how the birds sing out for joy around.

Creation casts its burthen

On such a holy day;
Shall I not to her then

My full heart's adoration meetly pay?—

She who has consented

To be, to-day, my bride,

And has not repented

For any ills that might meantime betide.

Dearer than all creatures

Of sight, or thought, or dream,

Gilds me to-day her features

With the mild lustre of love's languid beam.

While, upon the Evangels,

I pledge to her my faith,

Give ear, all good Angels

To the true words my passionate spirit saith.

May I ever shield her

From all shade of ill,

Comfort her, and yield her

Love to her love, indulgence to her Will.

May no remembered sorrow

Her pure soul annoy,

But to-morrow, and to-morrow

Still give her warmer hope, contentment, peace, and joy!

India.

SUMMER.

FROM THE GERMAN.

SUMMER is unveiling
The forest's hidden hue,
Rosy cloud-boats sailing

O'er Heaven's tranquil blue.

The linnet's song is sounding
Among the highest boughs,
The snowy lambs are bounding
Around the wondering cows.

Listless, I watch the flashing

Of the river and the beam;

I hear the far scythes clashing—
I know not what-I dream.

H. G. K.

THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

THE death of the Duke of Wellington is an event so solemn and impressive, that it has produced a great and most striking effect upon the whole nation. It has spread one universal feeling of regret and lamentation throughout the land. From the Sovereign on the throne to the peasant in the cottage-all have shared in the same sentiments. It has obliterated for a time the deep lines of party distinction. Like a great public catastrophe, affecting the fortunes of the whole nation, it has brought all to think the same, and to think aright; and the representatives of the very parties who were long most vehement in condemning his political career, are now the first to come forward and do justice to his memory, by swelling the universal chorus in his praise. The destiny of Wellington was in this respect very remarkable, and unlike that of any other great patriot or hero recorded in history. He was not, like Cæsar and Henry IV., cut short in the middle of his career by the ruthless hand of an assassin. He did not live, like Scipio Africanus or Themistocles, to mourn in exile over an ungrateful country and a dreary exile. He did not survive his intellect, like Marlborough; nor pine away, a captive and exile on a distant rock in the Atlantic, like Napoleon. He died in the fullness of years and of glory, having not only concluded his part in the camp and the Senate, but survived alike opposition and enmity, and lived to see a grateful nation and an admiring world unite in the homage due to his talents and his virtues. If ever a man heard, during Time, the voice of Futurity, that man was the Duke of Wellington.

"If aught can lessen," it has been not less justly than eloquently said, "the grief of England upon the death of her greatest son, it is the recollection that the life which has just closed leaves no duty incomplete, and no honour unbestowed. The Duke of Wellington, had exhausted nature and exhausted glory. His career was one unclouded longest day, filled from dawn to nightfall with renowned actions, animated by unfailing energy in the public service, guided by unswerving principles of conduct and of statesmanship. He rose by a rapid series of achievements, which none had surpassed, to a position which no other man in this nation ever enjoyed. The place occupied by the Duke of Wellington in the councils of the country, and in the life of England, can no more be filled. There is none left in the army or the Senate to act and speak with like authority. There is none with whom the valour and the worth of this nation were so incorporate. Yet, when we consider the fullness of his years, and the abundance of his incessant services, we may learn to say with the Roman orator, "Satis diu vixisse dicito," since, being mortal, nothing could be added either to our veneration or to his fame. Nature herself had seemed for a time to expand her inexorable limits, and the infirmities of age to lay a lighter burden on that honoured head. Generations of men had passed away between the first exploits of his arms and the last counsels of his age, until, by a lot unexampled in history, the man who had played the most conspicuous part in the annals of more than half a century became the last survivor of his contemporaries, and carries with him to the grave all living memory of his own achievements."-Times.

It has been truly observed, that "no man ever rose to great and lasting reputation among men who had not, on several occasions, resolutely opposed the current of general opinion." Never was the truth of this observation more signally illustrated than in the case of the Duke of Wellington. His whole life was one of contest, not merely with the enemies of his country, but with a numerous party in that country itself. His early career in India was stigmatised at the time by the Opposition journals as one of rashness and precipitance, only saved from inducing public ruin by good fortune and the surpassing valour of his troops. The same charges were repeated incessantly during the Peninsular war; and down to the battle of Vittoria, the Opposition, headed by Earl Grey and Mr Whitbread, annually impeached his conduct, in both Houses, as rash and inconsiderate, and condemned the war as costly, unnecessary, and hopeless. It is fresh in the recollection of many of our readers how violently he was assailed during the