And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear,

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien :

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

THE DISTANT SHIP.

THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast

Shoots like a glancing star,

While the red radiance of the west

Spreads kindling fast and far;

And yet that splendour wins thee not,-
Thy still and thoughtful eye

Dwells but on one dark distant spot

Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep

A solemn glory broods;

A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods:

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn with the amber light;—

What spell, from that rich pageantry,
Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling link'd to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark, which bears

The lov'd of many a hearth?

Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, Crowd her frail world even now,

And manhood's prayer and woman's tear, Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,

The glittering seas below;

But we are bound by cords of love

To kindred weal and wo.

Therefore, amidst this wide array

Of glorious things and fair,

My soul is on that bark's lone way

For human hearts are there.