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Whose course hath been cliang'd! yet my soul can survey

The clear clondless morn of that glorious day.

Yes! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore,

And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the shore.

I wale from my trance!—lo! the Sun is declining!

And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining,

—One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail!

Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale,

Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet,

Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet.

Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell!

—Yanish'd Creature! I bid thy fair image farewell!

A CHURCH-YARD-SCENE.

How sweet and solemn, all alone, With reverend steps, from stone' to stone In a small village-church-ynrd lying. O'er intervening flowers to move! And as we rend the names unknown Of young and old to judgment gone, And hear in the calm air above Time onwards softly flying, To meditate, in Christian love, Upon the dead and dying! Across the silence seem to go With dream-like motion, wavering, slow, And shrouded in their folds of snow, The friends we loved long long ngo! Gliding across the sad retreat, How beautiful their phantom-feet! What tenderness is in their eyes, Turned where the poor survivor lies 'Mid monitory sanctities! What years of vanished joy are fanned From one uplifting of that band In its white stillness! when the Shade Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade From our embrace, how dim appears This world's life through a mist of tears! Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!

Such Is the scene nround me now: A little Church-yard on the brow Of a green pastoral hill; Its sylvan village sleeps below. And faintly here is heard the flow Of Woodburn's snmmer-rill; A place where all things mournful meet, And yet the sweetest of the sweet, The stillest of the still'

With what a pensive beauty fall

Across the mossy mouldering wall

That rose-tree's clustered arches! Sec

The robin-redbreast warily,

Bright through the blossoms, leaves his neat:

Sweet ilignite! through the winter blest

At the firesides of men—but shy

Through all the sunny summer-hours,

He hides himself among the flowers

In his own wild festivity.

What lulling sound, and shadow cool

Hangs half the darkened church-yard o'er,

From thy green depths so beautiful .

Thou gorgeous sycamore!

Oft hath the holy wine and bread

Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,

Where many a bright and hoary head

Bowed at that awful sacrament

Now all beneath the turf are laid

On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.

Above that consecrated tree

Ascends the tapering spire that seems

To lift the sonl up silently

To heaven with all its dreams,

While in the belfry, deep and low,

From his heaved bosom's purple gleams

The dove's continuous murmurs flow,

A dirge-like song, half-bliss, half-woe.

The voice so lonely seems!

HYMN TO SPRING.

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream. She, like a smiling infant, timid plays On the green margin of this sunny lake. Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves (If riplings rather known by sound than

sight May haply so be named) that in the grass Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming

proud To venture round the edge of yon far point. That from an eminence softly sinking down. Doth from the wide and homeless waters

shape A scene of tender, delicate repose. Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy. Delightful Spring!—nor less an emblem fair. Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth

On such a day, 'mid such a scene an this. Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and

wished it lona;. In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies That, lending to the world inanimate A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve The sanctity of Nature, and embalm Her fleeting spectacles in memory's i • ■ 11 In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll 1'he ciraling seasons, and as each gives birth

To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft
Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade
Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.
Bat Nature calls the poet to her aid,
And in his lays beholds hor glory live
For eTer. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,
When all is dim before the outward eye,
Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,
They who have wander'd in their musing-
walks
With the great poets, in their spirits feel
No change on earth, but see the unalter'd

woods Laden with beauty, and inhale the song Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.

So hath it been with me, delightful Spring! And now I hail thee as a friend who pays An animal visit, yet whose image lives Krom parting to return, and who is blest Each time with blessings wanner than before.

Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling

smiles, Strangling with tears, nnd often overcome. A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, A balmy spirit breathing tenderness, Prepared thy way, and all created things Frit that the angel of delight was near. Tlion earnest at last, and such a heavenly

smile Shone round thee, as bescem'd the eldestborn Of Nature's guardian-spirits. The great Snn, Scattering the clonds with a resistless smile, Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn Wat by the low Winds chaunted in the sky; And when thy feet descended on the earth, Scarce could they move amid the clustering

flowers By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, To hail her blest deliverer!—Ye fair Trees, How are ye changed, and changing while I

gaze! It seems as if some gleam of verdant light Ml on you from a rainbow; but it lives Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour lato a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds, Were you asleep through all the wintry

hours, Krncath the waters, or in mossy caves? There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the

Spring, where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep Abide her annual reign, when forth they

come With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song. As ye do now, unwearied choristers, Till the band ring with joy. Yet are ye not, Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that from the valleyside

Send a soft bleating like an Infant's voice.
Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!
At Right of this your perfect innocence,
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
The strife of working intellect; the stir
Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound
Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry
Thitt ardent spirits burn for in their pride,
Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul
Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.

Now, is the time in some meek solitude To hold communion with those innocent

thoughts That bless'd our earlier days;—to list the

voice Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost

shrine, And learn if still she sing the quiet tune That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel, That 'mid the powers, the passions, and

desires Of riper age, wc still have kept our henrts Free from pollution and 'mid tempting scenes Walk'd on with pure nnd unreproved steps, Fearless of guilt, us if we knew it not; Ah me! with whnt a new sublimity Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads, Ourselves as stately. Smiling will we gaze On the clouds whose happy home is in the

heavens; Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea. But dread the beauty of a vernal day, Thou trembler before memory! To the saint Whnt sight so lovely as the angel-form That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils His face ashamed,—unable to endure The upbraiding silence of the seraph's

cye«!—

Yet awful must it be, even to the best And wisest man, when he beholds the sun Prepared once more to run his annual round Of glory and of love, and thinks that God To him, though sojourning in earthly shades, Hath also given an orbit, whence his light May glad the nations, or at least diffuse Peace and contentment over those he loves! His soul expanded by the breath of Spring, With holy confidence the thoughtful man Bencws his vows to virtue,—vows that bind To purest motives and most useful deeds. Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day, In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts; Lofty disdninings of all trivial joys Or sorrows; meditations long and deep On objects fit for the immortal love Of souls immortal; weeping penitence For duties (plain though highest duties be) Despised or violated; humblest vows, Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk

Elate in innocence; and, holier still.
Warm gushings of hia spirit unto God
For all hia paat existence, whether bright,
Aa the apring-landacape alceping in the aim,
Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea
Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such M ill be
Frequent and long hia muainga, till he feela
Aa all the atir aubaidea, like busy day
Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity.
How bleat is peace when born within the soul.

And therefore do I aing these pensive

hymns, O Spring! to thee, though thou by aome

art call'd Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd beat With festive dances and a choral aong. No melancholy man am I, aweet Spring! Who, filling all thinga with hia own poor

griefs, Sees nought but sadness in the character Of univeraal Nature, and who weavea Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy. Yet knowing something, dimly though it be, And therefore still more awful, of that

strange And moat tumultuous thing, the heart of man. It chanceth oft, that, mix'd with Nature's

smiles, My aoul beholds a aolemn quietness That almost looks like grief, aa if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happinesa Still trembled on the brink of misery!

Yea! mournful thoughta like these even

now ariae, While Spring, like Nature'a Biuiling infancy, Sporta round me, and all images of peace Seem native to this earth, nor other home Deaire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain Link in our hearta foreboding fears of death With every loveliest thing that seems to us Moat deeply fraught with life. la there a

child More beauteous than its playmates, even

more pure Tluin they? while gazing on its face, we

think That one so fair moat aurely soon will die! Such are the feara now beating at my heart. Ere long, aweet Spring! amid forgotten

things Thou and thy smiles must alcep: thy little

lamba Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning

birds Mute ;—faded every flower ao beautiful;— And all fair aymptoma of incipient life To fulneaa swollen, or sunk into decay!

Such arc the melancholy dreams that filled In the elder time the songs of tendcrcat bards,

Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and feara

Of what might be the final doom of man;

Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls

The language of deapair; and, mournful sight!

Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!—

Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!

O foolish hards, immortal in your works,

Yet trustless of your immortality!

Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards

Thua daunted by the image of decay.

They have their tears, and oft they shed them too,

By reason unreproach'd ; but on the pale

Cold cheek of death they sec a spirit smile,

Bright and still brightening, even like thee, oh Spring!

Stealing In beauty through the wintersnow !—

Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn ia

closed! And' thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired

banks I have so long reposed, yet in the depth Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves. Farewell!—the voice of worship and of

praise Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung! Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive

strain Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still

retains The soul of music sleeping in its strings.

LORD RONALD'S CHILD.

Thrrk days ago Lord Ronald's child
Was singing o'er the mountain-wild.
Among the sunny showers
That brought the rainbow to her sight.
And bathed her footatepa in the light
Of purple hcather-flowcra.
But chilly came the evening'a breath—
The ailent dew wna cold with death—
She reached her home with pain;
And from the bed where now she lira.
With snow-white face and closed ryrsu
She ne'er must rise again.

Still is she as a frame of stone.

That in its beauty lies alone,

With silence breathing from its face.

For ever in some holy place!

Chapel or nislc! on marble laid—

With pale hands o'er its pale breast sprrad

An image hnmble, meek, and low.
Of one forgotten long ago!

Soft feet are winding up the stair—

And Io! a Vision passing fair!

All dress'd in white—a mournful show—

A band of orphan children come,

With footsteps like the falling snow,

To bear to her eternal home

The gracious Lady who look'd down

With smiles on their forlorn estate—

—But Mercy up to heaven is gone,

And left the friendless to their fate.

They pluck the honeysuckle's bloom,
That through the window fills the room
With mournful odours—and the rose
That in its innocent heauty glows,
Leaning its dewy golden head
Towards the pale face of the dead,
Weeping like a thing forsaken
Into eyes that will not waken.
A" bathed in pity's gentle showers
They place these melancholy flowers
Ipon the cold white breast!
And there they lie! profoundly calm!
Ere long to fill with fading balm
A place of deeper rest!

By that fair Band the bier is borne
Into the open light of morn,—
ind, till the parting dirge be said,

P"n a spot of sunshine laid
Beneath a grove of trees!
Bowed and uncovered every head,
"right-tressed youth, and hoary age—
-Then suddenly before the dead
wrd Ronald's gathcr'd vassalage
«U down upon their knees!
ulen-Etive and its mountains lie
■*U silent as the depth profound
'" that unclouded sunbright sky—
Jj°* heard the melancholy sound
"'waters murmuring by.
"Wei softly from the orphan-band
A weeping Child, and takes her stand
Uoie to the Lady's feet,
Then wildly sings a funeral hymn!
*ith overflowing eyes and dim
*Rd on the winding-sheet!

Hymn.

0 beautiful the streams
That through our vallies run,

singing and dancing in the gleams Of dimmer's cloudless sun.

The sweetest of them all
From its fairy banks is gone;

*nd the ma(jc 0f the waterfall
H»th left the silent stone!

Up among the mountains

In soft and mossy cell.
By the silent springs and fountains

The happy wild-flowers dwell.

The queen-rose of the wilderness

Hath wither'd in the wind,
And the shepherds see no loveliness

In the blossoms left behind.

Birds cheer our lonely groves
With many a beauteous wing—

When happy in their harmless loves
How tenderly they sing.

O'er all the rest was heard

One wild and mournful strain,—

But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird. She ne'er must sing again!

Bright through the yew-trees gloom,

I saw a sleeping dove!
On the silence of her silvery plume,

The sunlight lay in love.

The grove seem'd all her own
Round the beauty of that breast—

But the startled dove afar is flown; ■
Forsaken is her nest!

In yonder forest wide

A flock of wild-deer lies,
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side,

And shades their peaceful eyes!

The hunter in the night

Hath singled out the doe, In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright,

Whose hue was like the snow!

A thousand stars shine forth,

With pure and dewy ray— Till by night the mountains of our north

Seem gladdening in the day.

O empty all the heaven!

Though a thousand lights be there— For clouds o'er the evening-star are driven,

And shorn her golden hair!

That melancholy music dies—

And all at once the kneeling crowd

Is stirr'd with groans, and sobs, and sighs—

As sudden blasts come rustling loud

Along the silent skies.

Hush! hush! the dirge doth breathe again!

The youngest of the orphan-train

Walks up unto the bier,

With rosy checki and smiling eyes
As heaven's unclouded radiance clear;
And there like Hope to Sorrow's strain
With dewy voice replies:

What! though the stream he dead,

Its hanks all still and dry!
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed

In the air-groves of the sky.

What! though our prayers from death The queen-rose might not save!

With brighter bloom and balmier breath
She springeth from I lie. grave.

What! though our bird of light
Lie mute with plumage dim!

In heaven I see her glancing bright—
I hear her angel-hymn.

What! though the dark tree smile
No more—with our dove's calm sleep!

She folds her wing on a sunny isle
In heaven's untroubled deep.

True that our beauteous doe

Hath left her still retreat— But purer now in heavenly snow

She lies at Jesus' feet.

O star! untimely set!

Why should we weep for thee! Thy bright and dewy coronet

Is rising o'er the sea!

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

Tin: husli of bliss was on the sunny hills, The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky, We travelled in the midst of melody Warbled around us from the mountain-rills. The voice was like the glad voice of a friend Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, And said: This day no farther will we roam! The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, Had surely felt the beauty of that day, And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay. But we, who travelled through that region

bright, M'ere joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, From youth had loved the dreams of pure

delight, Descending on us through the lonely air, When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and

Enrth as Heaven is fair!

Seven lovely days had like a happy dream Died' in our spirits silently away, Since Grassmere,waking to the morning-ray. Met our lost lingering look with farewell

gleam. I may not tell what joy our being filled, Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep. What beauteous visions lonely souls ran build When 'mid the mountain-solitude they sleep. I may not tell how the deep power of sound Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, * Winn lying 'mid the noise that lives around Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall. To thee, my Wordsworth! whose inspired

song Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner

shrine. To thee by birth-right such high themes

belong. The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine! One lowlier simple strain of human love be

mine.

How leapt our hearts, when from an airy

height, On which wc paused for a sweet fountain's

sake, With green fields fading in a peaceful lake. A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight! We felt as if at home; a magic sound, As from a spirit whom we must obey, Bade us descend into the vale profound, And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day. The placid lake that rested far below, Softly embosoming another sky, Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow. And seem'd to send us looks of amity. Our hearts were open to the gracions love Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride; So following the still impulse from above. Down the green slope we wind with airy

glide, And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's

side.

Ah me! even now I see before me i Among the verdant holly-boughs balf-hid. The little radiant airy Pyramid. Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy-boat. As silently as gathering cloud it rose. And seems a cloud descended on the earth. Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose. Yet gently stirring at the quiet birtri Of every short-lived breeze: the sunbeam*

greet The beauteous stranger in the lonely bav; Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet. With gentle glide, as weary of their pbnr. And in the liquid lustre of the lake Its image sleeps, reflected far below; Such image as the clouds of summer mauVr Clear seen amid the wavcless water's glow As slumbering infant still and pore aa April

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