Beloved by every gentle Muse
He left his Transatlantic home!
Europe, a realized romance,
Had opened on his eager glance;

What present bliss!-what golden views!
What stores for years to come!

Though lodged within no vigorous frame,
His soul her daily tasks renewed,
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings
High poised-or as the wren that sings
In shady places, to proclaim
Her modest gratitude.

Not vain is sadly-uttered praise;

The words of truth's memorial vow,

Are sweet as morning fragrance shed
From flowers 'mid GOLDAU's ruins bred;
As evening's fondly lingering rays,
On RIGHI's silent brow.

Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;
And piety shall guard the Stone

Which hath not left the spot unknown

Where the wild waves resign their prey—

And that which marks thy bed.

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee,

Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;

This tribute from a casual Friend
A not unwelcome aid may lend,
To feed the tender luxury,
The rising pang to smother.'

The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted Moth. r felt was derived from the tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.

ΟΠ

SONNET.

H what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech!

Yet-though dread Powers, that work in mystery,

spin

Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch

O'er the chilled heart-reflect; far, far within
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin.

She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch,
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch

To Her from heights that Reason may not win.
Like Children, She is privileged to hold
Divine communion; both to live and move,
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold,
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love;
Love pitying innocence not long to last,
In them-in Her our sins and sorrows past.

THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.

'IS not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,

'TIS

The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
His staff is a sceptre-his grey hairs a crown;
And his bright eyes look brighter set off by the
streak

Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,-'mid the

joy

Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain

That his life hath received, to the last will remain.

A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale

Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild

ale!

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,

His fields seemed to know what their Master was

doing;

And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,-
The fields better suited the ease of his soul:
He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight.

For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door;
He gave them the best that he had; or, to say
What less may mislead you, they took it away.

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm.
The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm:
At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,
His means are run out, he must beg, or must
borrow.

To the neighbors he went,-all were free with their

money;

For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;-He continued his

rounds,

Knocked here and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,
And something, it might be, reserved for himself:
Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,
Turned his back on the country-and off like a bird.

You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;
In him it was scarcely a business of art,
For this he did all in the ease of his heart.

To London-a sad emigration I ween—

With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the

green;

And there, with small wealth but his legs and his

hands,

As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.

All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,— Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But nature is gracious, necessity kind,

And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,

He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is

stout;

Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;

You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;
But often his mind is compelled to demur,
And you guess that the more then his body must stir.

In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,
Like one whose own country's far over the sea;
And Nature, while through the great city he hies,
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.

This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue;
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,

Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw,

Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw ; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a

dream.