Or bees, that haunt the meadows' flow'ry pride,
Enrich by turns thy soft mellifluous lay.

To think that She is to the grave gone down!
Were I, my friend, a solitary man,
Without one tie in life to anchor me,

I think that I would wander far to view

Such scenes as these, for they would fill a heart
That loathes the commerce of this wretched world,
And sickens at its hollow gaieties.

And sure it were most pleasant when the day
Was young, to roam along the mountain path,
And mark the upmost pines, or grey with age,
Or blue in their first foliage, richly tinged
With the slant sun-beam, then at fits to pause
And gaze into the glen, a deep abyss
Of vapour, whence the unseen torrents roar
Up-thunder'd. Sweet to walk abroad at night
When as the summer moon was high in heaven
And shed a calm clear lustre, such as gave
The encircling mountains to the eye, distinct,
Disrobed of all their bright day-borrow'd hues,
The rocks' huge shadows darker, the glen stream
Sparkling along its course, and the cool air
Fill'd with the firs' faint odour.

But in sooth

Well pleased am I to sit me down in peace,

While Phantasy, an untired traveller,

Goes forth; and I shall thank thee for the rhyme
That with the Poets of the distant years

Makes me hold converse. 'Twas a strange belief!
And evil was the hour when men began
To humanize their God, and give to stocks
And stones the incommunicable name.*

It is not strange that simple men should rear

* Men, serving either calamity or tyranny, did ascribe unto stones and stocks the incommunicable name.

Wisdom of Solomon, xiv. 21.

Soft flow thy lays, O thrice illustrious Joe, Soft as the mole that burrows near thy feet,

The grassy altar to the glorious sun,

And pile it with spring flowers and summer fruits,
And when the glorious sun smiled on their rites,
And made the landscape lovely, the warm heart
With no unholy zeal might swell the hymn
Of adoration. When the savage hears
The thunder burst, and sees the lurid sky
Glow with repeated fires, it is not strange
That he should hasten to his hut, and veil
His face, and dread the Dæmon of the storm.
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,
Should let creative fancy people earth

With unseen powers, that, clad in darkness, roam
Around the world, and mark the deeds of men,
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate, and kill,
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of JESUS, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose

At Odin's altar, or the Mexican,

The victim's heart still quivering in his grasp,
Rais'd at Mexitlis' shrine-this is most foul,
Most rank, most blasphemous idolatry!
And better were it for those wretched men
With infant victims to have fed the fire
Of Moloch, in that hour when they shall call
Upon the hills and rocks to cover them,
For the judgment day is come.

A few grey stones

Now mark the spot where Odin's temple stood,
And there the traveller seeks with busy eye
His altar green with moss. The Northern chiefs
Cast not their captive in the dungeon now

Soothing as Zephyr in the noontide glow
Of sultry dog-days, and as woodbine sweet;
But may no elfin sister faithless prove,
And ah! thy three-legg'd chair unwittingly remove.

To the viper brood, nor to the eagle's shape
Carve out his mangled form. Yet let not earth,
Yet let not heaven forget the prison house
Of Olmutz! what though to his conqueror's sword
Crouching, the oppressor lets his victim see
Once more the light of day, let earth and heaven
Remember to his conqueror's sword he yields
What at his feet a woman begg'd in vain.

A wretched wife. Now may the prosperous winds
Speed thee, La Fayette! to that happier shore
Where Priestly dwells, where Kosciusko rests
From holy warfare. Persecuted men !
Outcasts of Europe! sufferers in the cause
Of Truth and Freedom! ye have found a home
And in the peaceful evening of your days
A high reward is yours, the blessedness
Of self-applause.

Is it not strange, my friend,

If ought of human folly could surprise,
That men should with such duteous zeal observe
Each ideot form, each agonizing rite

Of Pagan faith, whilst there are none who keep
The easy precepts of the Nazarene,

The faith that with it brings its own reward,
The law of peace and love?—But they are wise
Who in these evil and tumultuous times
Heed not the world's mad business: chiefly they
Who with most pleasant labouring acquire
No selfish knowledge. Of his fellow kind
He well deserves, who for their evening hours
A blameless joy affords, and his good works,
When in the grave he sleeps, still shall survive.
Now fare thee well, and prosper in thy task,

N

SONNET III.

INSCRIPTION FOR A CELL IN ST. VINCENT'S ROCKS, NEAR BRISTOL.

CELL of my youthful haunts! within thy cave

Sits awful SILENCE

fann'd by the soft breeze

That ever and anon from odorous trees

Steels grateful, as the gentle breath of love.
She marks the earliest energies of spring,
On dewy pinions, tending each lone spray
And wildly scatter'd flower; the jocund lay
She loves to hear, that bright-eyed fairies sing.
And when the stars o'er yonder summit shine,
That frowning beetles o'er old Avon's flood;
She, doubly blest, in contemplative mood,
Lists to the flittings of aye passing time-
Stay, mortal, stay. Nor let thy foot intrude:
Here Silence loves to dwell in hermit solitude.

SONNET IV.

TO POVERTY.

LOW in a barren vale I see thee sit

Cowering, while Winter blows his shivering blast,
Over thy reedy fire-pale, comfortless!
Blest independence, with elastic foot,

Spurns thy low dwelling, whilst the sons of joy
Turn from thy clouded brow, or, with a scowl,
Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand
Famine and wan disease! two meagre forms,
Thy only visitants, who, though repelled,
Officious tend thee wretched eremite!
Around thy cell, ah! wherefore see I graved
The sacred names of genius? Spenser here
Found his last refuge! Otway! Butler, too!
And Scotia's last, not least, heroic bard!

SONNET V.

LEIGH WOODS.

EDWIN! how sweet a solace might'st thou find,
When the fierce dog-star darts his scorching beam,
In contemplation's not unholy dream,

Beneath Leigh's antique wood to lie reclined!
There would the cheerful linnet wing its way,
To seek thy lone retreat, and pour on high
Unlabour'd strains of softest melody,
Gladdening with song the sultry hours of day:

There might'st thou breathe the balmy breath of thyme,
Or scatter'd wild flower, from yon sunny vale,
Wafted unceasing by each random gale,

While Vincent's rude majestic heights were thine:
Ah, no! methinks I hear thee fondly say

Not Tempé's self would please, were Rosalind away.

ON THE MILTON GALLERY.

VI.

LAWRENCE! thy native powers, by art refined,
Unrivall'd, character the manly mind:
"Tis, Hoppner, thine to catch the witching grace
Of beauty's eye, and sweetly-smiling face:

To nobler heights thy genius, Barry, soars,
Well pleased to linger on the Thracian shores;
Or trace the scenes where attic sports display
The dawn of science ripening into day;
Th' Olympic dust, the allegoric flood,
And final guerdon of the great, and good.
To Opie's pencil, liberal Nature gave

Her fleeting forms, with truth severe to save;