And oft, upon the midnight air,

Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,

And bear from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!

What form more lovely could be given

Than thine, to messenger of Heaven?

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free, the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noon-day reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,

Unfelt by those whose task is done!

There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,

And far, by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread,

For those that from their toils are gone;
-There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,

The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,

Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won, There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose
"Tis a dark and dreadful hour,

When round the ship the ice-fields close,
To chain her with their power.

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead.

TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER.

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;—
How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be,
Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard?
And that deep soul of gentleness and

power, Have we not felt its breath in every word,

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower?

-Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd—

Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd.

How shall we mourn thee?-With a lofty trust,
Our life's immortal birthright from above!
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,

Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,