Meantime, far off the rear of darkness flies.
Yet, mid the beauties of the morn unmov'd,
Like one, forever torn from all he lov'd,
Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
Where ev'ry pleasure seem'd ere while to dwell:
Yet boots it not to think or to complain,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main.
To dreams like these adieu! the pealing bell
Speaks of the hour that stays not, and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

ON THE RHINE.

"T WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine)

Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted; varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire;
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire
Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow.
Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair,

Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!
As when, at opening inorn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now along the white and level tide
They fling their melancholy music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer days, and those delightful years,
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears;
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more.

TO TIME.

O TIME, who knows't a lenient hand to lay,
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away :
On thee I rest my only hopes at last;

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul heid dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile.
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient show'r,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,
Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND.

Ан, from my eyes the tears unbidden start,
Albion! as now thy cliffs (that white appear
Far o'er the wave, and their proud summits rear
To meet the beains of morn) my beating heart
With eager hope and filial transport hails!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amid your blooming vales,
And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain:
Fled are those hours and all the joys they gave:
Yet still I sigh, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to your haunts again:
If haply, mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.

NETLEY ABBEY.

FALLEN pile! I ask not what has been thy fate,
But when the weak winds wafted from the main,
Through each lone arch, like spirits that complain,
Come mourning to my ear, I meditate
On this world's passing pageant, and on those
Who once like thee majestic and sublime
Have stood; till bow'd beneath the hand of time,
Or hard mishap, at their sad evening's close,
Their bold and beauteous port has sunk forlorn!
Yet wearing still a charm, that age and cares
Could ne'er subdue, decking the silver hairs
Of sorrow, as with short-liv'd gleam the morn
Illumines whilst it weeps, the refted tower

That lifts its forehead gray, and smiles amidst the shower,

BERNARD BARTON.

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

THOUGH parental affection lament thee,
And anguish, which loves to recall
Thy image, may oft represent thee
As the fairest and loveliest of all:
Although I must feel for such sorrow,
There is so much bliss in thy lot,
That pain from thee pleasure may borrow
And joy could not wish thee forgot.

When childhood, by sin yet untainted,
Gives up life, which it scarcely hath gain'd;
And, ere with affliction acquainted,
Hath its end and its object attain'd;
There is so much of sweet consolation,
To soften the sorrow we feel;

While we mourn the severe dispensation,
We bow to the hand which can heal.

Death comes not to such in his terrors,
His pains are half pangless to them;
Crimes have not succeeded to errors,
Nor conscience been roused to condemn.
The prospect before and behind them
Awakes not one heart-stinging sigh;
The season of suffering assign'd them
May be bitter, but soon is gone by.

There is much to relieve, and restore us
To peace, when the child which we lov'd
Hath ascended to glory before us,

Not unblest, though in mercy unprov'd!
Fond fancy gives birth to the feeling
That part of ourselves is at rest;
Hope, humble, but holy and healing,

Sheds its balm in the yet bleeding breast.

Who knows but the beings who bound us
With tenderest ties to this world,
Though unseen, may be hovering around us,
With their cherub-like pinions unfurl'd?
Although not to our senses permitted

To be visible, still they are near;

And the feelings they prompt are most fitted To dry up the sorrowing tear.

They tell us that change of existence

Has not sever'd, but strengthen'd each tie; And, that though we may think them at distance, Yet still they are spiritually nigh. There yet is an unbroken union,

Though mortality's curtain may fall; And souls may keep up their communion, Through the God of the spirits of all!

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

FAIR flower, that shunn'st the glare of day,
Yet lov'st to open, neekly bold,
To evening's hues of sober gray
Thy cup of paly gold;-

Be thine the offering owing long
To thee, and to this pensive hour,
Of one brief tributary song,

Though transient as thy flower.

I love to watch at silent eve,

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light,
And have my inmost heart receive
The influence of that sight.

I love at such an hour to mark

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, And shine, nid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while,
When cares and griefs the breast invade,

Is friendship's animating smile

In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears,
And bears the sinking spirit up
Amid its chilling fears.

But still more animating far,

If meek Religion's eye may trace, Even in thy glimm'ring earth-born star, The holier hope of Grace.

The hope that as thy beauteous bloom
Expands to glad the close of day,
So through the shadows of the tomb
May break forth Mercy's ray.

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER RETURNING FROM AN AUTUMNAL MORNING WALK.

It is the very carnival of nature,

The loveliest season that the year can show!
When earth, obedient to her great Creator,
Her richest boons delighteth to bestow.
The gently-sighing breezes, as they blow,
Have more than vernal softness; and the sun
Sheds on the landscape round a mellower glow
Than in his summer splendour he has done,
As if he near'd his goal, and knew the race was won.

It is the season when the green delight
Of leafy luxury begins to fade!

When leaves are changing daily to the sight,
Yet seem but lovelier from each deepening shade,
Or tint, by autumn's touch upon them laid;

It is the season when each streamlet's sound,
Flowing through lonely vale, or woody glade,

Assumes a tone more pensive, more profound;
And yet that hoarser voice spreads melody around.

And I have wander'd far, since the bright east
Was glorious with the dawning light of day;
Seeing as that effulgence more increas'd,
The mists of morning slowly melt away:

And, as I pass'd along, from every spray,

With dew-drops glistening, ever more have heard
Some feather'd songster chant his roundelay;
Or bleat of sheep, or lowing of the herd;

Or rustling of fall'n leaf, when morning's breezes stirr❜d.

Thus having roam'd, and reach'd my home at last,
Can I do better, while my bosoms glows,
With all the loveliness through which I've pass'd,
Even till enjoyment wishes for repose,
And meditation still with memory grows:
Can I do better than once more to trim
My evening fire, and these my labours close,
Before my feelings chill, or sense wax dim,
With solemn strain of prayer, fit for a parting hymn?

"O God! it is an awful thing indeed

For one who estimates our nature well,
Be what it may his outward sect, or creed,
To name thee, thou Incomprehensible!
Hadst thou not chosen of thyself to tell,

As in thy gospel thou hast done; nor less,
By condescending in our hearts to dwell;
Could man have ever found to thee access,
Or worshipp'd thee aright, in spiritual holiness?