Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train,
Profaning the best name of poesy.
With loftier aspirations, and an aim
More worthy man's immortal nature, Thou
That holiest spirit that still loves to dwell
In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night
Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her

Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars
Of heaven such soul-subduing melody

As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.

SONNET.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion, there was rest:
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF
AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.

POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
More frail and death-like even than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of heaven,
Full in thy face are coldly driven,

As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.

Yet chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,
Mild creature, thou dost not complain

By sound or look of these ungracious skies;
Calmly as if in friendly shed,

There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,

And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.

Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze

On thee; nor am I loth to praise

Him who in moral mood this image drew;
And yet, methinks, that I could frame

An image different, yet the same,

More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.

Behold a lane retired and green,

Winding amid a forest-scene,

With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;
There is a browsing ass espied,

One colt is frisking by her side,

And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.

And lo! a little maiden stands,

With thistles in her tender hands,

Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat ;

Or gently down before him lays,

With words of solace and of praise,

Pluck'd from the untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.

The summer sun is sinking down,

And the peasants from the market town

With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning;

Groups of gay children too are there,

Stirring with mirth the silent air,

O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.

The ass hath got his burthen still!

The merry elves the panniers fill:

Delighted there from side to side they swing.

The creature heeds nor shout nor call,

But jogs on careless of them all,

Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.

A gipsey-group! the secret wood

Stirs through its leafy solitude,

As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;

Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires

From the brown tents, and sparkling fires,

And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,
More pensive mid this scene of glee,

That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;

The soul of all her softest rays

On yonder placid creature plays,

As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.

But now the silver moonbeams fade,

And, peeping through a flowery glade,

Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:

An ass stands meek and patient there,

And by her side a spectre fair,

To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.

With tenderest care the pitying dame
Supports the dying maiden's frame,

And strives with laughing looks her heart to cheer;
While playful children crowd around

To catch her eye by smile or sound,

Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!

I feel this mournful dream impart

A holier image to my heart,

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth :-
Blest creature! through the solemn night,

I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,

Shed from that wond'rous child-The Saviour of the earth.

When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,
Thou on that wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie;
On thee the humble Jesus sate,

When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate,

To see mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.

Happy thou wert,-nor low thy praise,

In peaceful patriarchal days,

When countless tents slow passed from land to land
Like clouds o'er heaven:-the gentle race

Such quiet scene did meetly grace,-

Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.

Poor wretch!--my musing dream is o'er;

Thy shivering form I view once more,

And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.

But they whose thoughtful spirits see

The truth of life, will pause with me,

And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!

THE air of death breathes through our souls,

The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,

And says, "Prepare to die."

The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wond'rous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave,
With thin locks silvery-gray;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

And holy midnight voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright, From whose dear side they came! --We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath The Plague may soon destroy; We think on Thee, and feel in death A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish toars!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast!

33*

GEORGE CROLY.

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

WHAT is Death? "T is to be free!
No more to love, or hope, or fear-
To join the great equality:
All alike are humble there!
The mighty grave

Wraps lord and slave;

Nor pride, nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge-house, the tomb !

Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art king!
Empires at thy footstool lie!
Beneath thee strow'd

Their multitude

Sink, like waves upon the shore;
Storms shall never rouse them more!

What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne!
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,

To thy kingdom all have gone.
Before thee stand

The wondrous band;

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darken'd nations when they died!

Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on:
Back from the tomb

No step has come;

There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound!

DOMESTIC LOVE.

DOMESTIC Love! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lonely cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide ;
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,
Shining along, through banks with harebells dyed;