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IO

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But art thou sure the goddess leads

5 Yon motley group that onward press? Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes, Arrayed in Pleasure's borrowed dress. When last I saw her smile serene, And spread her soft enchantments wide, My lovely child adorned the scene, And sported by the flowing tide. The fairest shells for me to seek, Intent the little wanderer strayed ; The rose that blossomed on his cheek

15 Still deepening as the breezes played. Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, How did my heart delight to trace A soul-all harmony and love ! Fair as the dreams by fancy given, A model of unearthly grace; Whene'er he raised his eyes to heaven, He seemed to seek his native place. More lovely than the morning ray, His brilliant form of life and light Through strange gradations of decay In sad succession shocked my sight. And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother's tears. Soon was my dream of bliss o'ercast, And all the dear illusion o'er ; A few dark days of terror past,

35 And joy and Frederick bloom no more.

Melesina Trench.

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CCXLVIII

THE DEATH BED.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

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So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers,
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied ;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood.

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CCXLIX

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD,

YORKSHIRE.

Methinks it is good to be here;
If Thou wilt, let us build—but for whom ?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition ? oh, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him below,

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In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty ? ah, no !-she forgets
The charms which she wielded before-

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 15

Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud ?

Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 19
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches ? alas! 'tis in vain;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:

The treasures are squandered again;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 25

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ?

Ah! here is a plentiful board !
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

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Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above;
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side;
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow ?— The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve !
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear-
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

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Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around—the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown ! 45

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, 49 Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.

Herbert Knowles.
CCL

TIME.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,

Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality!

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And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,

Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea?

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

IO

CCLI

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;-
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

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IO

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his Love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

14 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore.

CCLII

REMEMBRANCE.

Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

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Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, evermore?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

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Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

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