III.

Watch in the deepest cell

Of the foeman's dungeon-tower, Till hope's most cherished spell Has lost its cheering power; And sing, while the galling chain On every stiff limb freezes,

Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain, Of the breath of the mountain breezes.

IV.

Talk of the minstrel's lute,

The warrior's high endeavour, When the honeyed lips are mute,

And the strong arm crushed forever;

Look back to the summer sun,

From the mist of dark December; Then say to the broken-hearted one, "Tis pleasant to remember!"

(APRIL 11, 1829.)

FUIMUS!

Go to the once-loved bowers;

Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair: Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,

They were!

Look for the domes of kings;

Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! Oblivion sits beside them; Mockery sings, They were!

Waken the minstrel's lute;

Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air: The chords are broken, and the lips are

mute:

They were!

Visit the great and brave;

Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair: Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave?— They were!

Speak to thine own heart; prove

The secrets of thy nature.

What is there?

Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith,

fond love,

They were!

We too, we too must fall;

A few brief years to labour and to bear ;Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale, "We were!"

(MAY 21, 1829.)

LINES.

SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VERY FINE

OLD BRANDY. WRITTEN FOR LADY C.

SPIRITS there were, in olden time,

Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things (As we are told in prose and rhyme)

With wands and potions, lamps and rings;
I know not, Lady fair,-do you?—
Whether those tales be false or true.

But in our day-our dismal day

Of sadder song and soberer mirth,

If any spirits ever play

Upon the faded fields of earth,

Whose magic, Lady fair, can fling

O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring,

If any spirits haunt our Isle

Whose power can make old age look gay, Revive the tone, relume the smile,

And chase threescore of years away,Such spirits, Lady fair, must be

Like those your kindness sends to me!

(MAY 2, 1829.)

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

I.

ONCE on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play

Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy-he knew not whence or how,-

And smiling,-who could choose but love him? For not more glad than Childhood's brow Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

II.

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,

The birds were mute, the lilies faded.

But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

III.

With curling lip and glancing eye,

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;

But Childhood's glance of purity

Had such a holy spell within it,

That the dark demon, to the air

Spread forth again his baffled pinion,

And hid his envy and despair,

Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

IV.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup,

Full to the brim of bitter water:

Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;

And when the beldame muttered-"Sorrow,"

He said,-"Don't interrupt my game;

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."

V.

The Muse of Pindus thither came,

And wooed him with the softest numbers

That ever scattered wealth and fame

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers.