is found

Beautiful form of woman! seeming made Alone to shine in mirrors, there to braid The hair and zone the waist-to garland flowers

Their presence may be o'er; The dearest voice that meets our ear, That tone may come no more! Youth fades; and then, the joys

youth,

bowers-

Which once refreshed our mind, Shall come-as, on those sighing woods, The chilling autumn wind.

she sever

For ever from the one she loved for ever, To dwell among the strangers? Aye! and she,

Who shone most brightly in that festive glee,

Sate down in this despair most patiently.

Some hearts are Niobes! in grief's down

sweeping

They turn to very stone from overweeping,

And after, feel no more. Hers did remain In life, which is the power of feeling

pain,

Till pain consumed the life so called below. She heard that he was dead!-she asked not how

For he was dead! She wailed not o'er his urn,

It will not wrong thy present joy
With bygone days to wend;
Nor wrongeth it mine English hearth
To love my Gallic friend.

burn

Thy wedded finger press!
May he who calls thy love his own,

Call so thine happiness!

Be he Terpander to thine heart,

And string fresh strings of gold, Which may outgive new melodies,

But never mar the old!

And though I clasp no more thy hand
And though I see thy face no more,
In my hand, and rejoice-
And hear no more thy voice-
Farewell, farewell!-let thought of me
Visit thine heart! There is

In mine the very selfish prayer
That prayeth for thy bliss!

TO A BOY

WHEN my last song was said for thee
Thy golden hair swept, long and free,
Around thee; and a dove-like tone
Was on thy voice-or Nature's own:
And every phrase and word of thine
Went out in lispings infantine!
Thy small steps faltering round our
hearth-

Thine een out-peering in their mirth— Blue een! that, like thine heart, seemed given

To be, for ever, full of heaven!
Wert thou, in sooth, made up of glee,
When my last song was said for thee?

And now more years are finishèd,-
For thee another song is said.
Thy voice hath lost its cooing tone;
The lisping of thy words is gone :
Thy step treads firm-thine hair not flings
Round thee its length of golden rings-
Departed, like all lovely things!
Yet art thou still made up of glee,
When my now song is said for thee.

Wisely and well responded they, Who cut thy golden hair away,

What time I made the bootless prayer,
That they should pause awhile, and spare.
They said, 'its sheen did less agree
With boyhood than with infancy.'
And thus I know it ay must be :
Before the revel noise is done,
The revel lamps pale one by one.

Aye! Nature loveth not to bring
Crowned victims to life's labouring.
The mirth-effulgent eye appears
Less sparkling-to make room for tears:
After the heart's quick throbs depart,
We lose the gladness of the heart :
And, after we have lost awhile
The rose o' the lip, we lose its smile:
As Beauty could not bear to press
Near the death-pyre of Happiness.

This seemeth but a sombre dream?
It hath more pleasant thoughts than seem.
The older a young tree doth grow
The deeper shade it sheds below;
But makes the grass more green-the air
More fresh, than had the sun been there.
And thus our human life is found,
Albeit a darkness gather round:
For patient virtues, that their light
May shine to all men, want the night:
And holy Peace, unused to cope,
Sits meekly at the tomb of Hope,
Saying that she is risen!'

Then I

Will sorrow not at destiny,-
Though from thine eyes, and from thine
heart,

The glory of their light depart;
Though on thy voice, and on thy brow,
Should come a fiercer change than now;
Though thou no more be made of glee,
When my next song is said for thee.

REMONSTRANCE

Oн, say not it is vain to weep

That deafened bier above;

Oh, say not I shall cease to weep
When years have withered by ;
That ever I shall speak of joy,
As if he could reply;
That ever mine unquivering lips

Shall name the name he bore:
I know that I may cease to weep,
And therefore weep the more!

Say, Time, who slew mine happiness,
Will leave to me my woe;
And woe's own stony strength shall chain
These tears' impassioned flow:
Or say, that these, my ceaseless tears,
May life to death restore;

For then my soul were wept away,
And I should weep no more!

And life is past from love;

That tears can never his bright looks
And tender words restore :

I know it is most vain to weep-
And therefore weep the more!

last for ever ;

King, whom the nations scan, adoring

scan,

And shout 'a god,' when sin hath marked thee man ;