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 every stiff limb freezes,

On

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

Talk of the minstrel's lute,

The warrior's high endeavour,

When the honied lips are mute

And the strong arm crushed for ever; 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 fail;

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

Revive the tone, relume the smile,

gay,

And chase three score 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.

VOL. I.

Y