"YOUNG ENGLAND-WHAT IS THEN BECOME OF OLD"

YOUNG ENGLAND-what is then become of

Old

Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead,

Dead to the very name? Presumption fed On empty air! That name will keep its

hold

In the true filial bosom's inmost fold
For ever. -The Spirit of Alfred, at the head
Of all who for her rights watched, toiled
and bled,

Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. What-how! shall she submit in will and deed

To Beardless Boys-an imitative race,
The servum pecus of a Gallic breed?
Dear Mother! if thou must thy steps re-

trace,

Go where at least meek Innocency dwells; Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles.

1845.

"THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF POESY AFFECT"

THOUGH the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops

Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt

Or muse in solemn grove whose shades

protect

The lingering dew-there steals along, or stops

Watching the least small bird that round her hops,

Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent

Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine,

Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine,

With brow in penitential sorrow bent !

1845.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE

note.

This subject has been treated of in another I will here only by way of comment direct attention to the fact that pictures of animals and other productions of nature as seen in conservatories, menageries, museums, etc., would do little for the national mind, nay they would be rather injurious to it, if the imagination were excluded by the presence of the object, more or less out of a state of nature. If it were not that we learn to talk and think of the lion and the eagle, the palmtree and even the cedar, from the impassioned introduction of them so frequently into Holy Scripture and by great poets, and divines who write as poets, the spiritual part of our nature, and therefore the higher part of it, would derive no benefit from such intercourse with such objects. THE gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed,

And a true master of the glowing strain,
Might scan the narrow province with disdain
That to the Painter's skill is here allowed.
This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim
The daring thought, forget the name;
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers
might own

As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway

Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they

Through India's spicy regions wing their

way,

Might bow to as their Lord. What character,

O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee,
Of all thy feathered progeny

Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair?
So richly decked in variegated down,
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy
brown,

Tints softly with each other blended,
Hues doubtfully begun and ended;
Or intershooting, and to sight
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light
Glance on the conscious plumes touched
here and there?

Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life

Began the pencil's strife,

O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare.

WHY should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,

For such thou wert ere from our sight removed,

Holy, and ever dutiful-beloved
From day to day with never-ceasing joy,
And hopes as dear as could the heart em-
ploy

In aught to earth pertaining? Death has proved

His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved-
Death conscious that he only could destroy
The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low
To moulder in a far-off field of Rome;
But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's

home:

When such divine communion, which we know,

Is felt, thy Roman-burial place will be
Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee.

1846.

"WHERE LIES THE TRUTH? HAS MAN, IN WISDOM'S CREED"

When Flowers rejoice and Larks with rival speed

Spring from their nests to bid the Sun good morrow?

They mount for rapture as their songs proclaim

Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky; But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh?

Like those aspirants let us soar-our aim, Through life's worst trials, whether shocks or snares,

A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs. 1846.

"I KNOW AN AGED MAN CONSTRAINED TO DWELL"

I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell
In a large house of public charity,
Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell,
With numbers near, alas! no company.

When he could creep about, at will, though poor

And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door Came not, but in a lane partook his bread.

There, at the root of one particular tree, An easy seat this worn-out Labourer found While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his

knee

Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground.

Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day; What signs of mutual gladness when they met!

Think of their common peace, their simple

play,

The parting moment and its fond regret.

Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil,

In spite of season's change, its own demand, By fluttering pinions here and busy bill;

creed,

A pitiable doom; for respite brief
A care more anxious, or a heavier grief?
Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed
God's bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed,
Must Man, with labour born, awake to

sorrow

Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong Was formed between the solitary pair, That when his fate had housed him 'mid a throng

The Captive shunned all converse proffered

there.

The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill;
And Dian gazing on the Shepherd's face
In rapture,--yet suspending her embrace,
As not unconscious with what power the
thrill

Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase,

And, with his sleep, that beauty calm and still.

Oh may this work have found its last retreat Here in a Mountain-bard's secure abode, One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia showed

A face of love which he in love would greet, Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat; Or lured along where greenwood paths he

trod.

RYDAL MOUNT, 1846.

thought-dominion vast and absolute spreading truth, and making love expand.

Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit

The taste of this once-intellectual Land. A backward movement surely have we here,

From manhood,-back to childhood; for the age

Back towards caverned life's first rude