Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

MUTATION.

A SONNET.

THEY talk of short-lived pleasure-be it so
Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;

And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:

Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release

His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes-did it keep

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

NOVEMBER.

A SONNET.

YET one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,

And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,

The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,

And man delight to linger in thy ray.

Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear

The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON.

I BUCKLE to my slender side

The pistol and the scimitar,

And in my maiden flower and pride
Am come to share the tasks of war.

And yonder stands my fiery steed,

That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed,—

I took him from the routed foe.

My mirror is the mountain spring,
At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,

And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard from wind and sun
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled?

It was for one-oh, only one

I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

But they who slew him-unaware
Of coward murderers lurking nigh-

And left him to the fowls of air,

Are yet alive-and they must die. They slew him—and my virgin years

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now,

And many an Othman dame, in tears,

Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

I touched the lute in better days,
I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays

Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.

The march of hosts that haste to meet
Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so swee
As the fierce shout of victory.