For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!

TO A COLD BEAUTY,

LADY, would'st thou heiress be

To winter's cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart: Thou that should'st outlast the snow But in the whiteness of thy brow?

Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind: Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue; And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in love's peculiar throne; Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May!

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened:-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell
But long lashes veil'd a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;—
Thus she stood amid the stooks
Praising God with sweetest looks :-

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou should'st but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand;
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill;
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plovers answer shrill :
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread:
And I may even walk a waste

That widen'd when she fled

Full many a thankless child has been,-
But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine:
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses-red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing;

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing:

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy!

BALLAD.

SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robb'd my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 'tis turn'd to tears:

ODE.

OH! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, "O rue!"
Of London pleasures sick :

Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort, alas!
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip-cups, but meet
With very vile rebuffs!
For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff's.

How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are strew'd!
My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown!

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing
From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep?
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my "tuneful throng."

Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,
And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes.

Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
Th' Arcadian herdsmen us'd to play
Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes

The rank weed-"piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd
With objects hard to bear:
Shades-vernal shades! where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold
An Ingram's rustic chair!

Well ink'd with black and red :

Ou when I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles-once my bag was storedNow I must play with Elgin's lord,

With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipp'd his string, Forgotten all his capering,

And harness'd to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote-my present dreams
Will never soar so high.

My joys are wingless all and dead;

My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall:

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;

I am a shuttlecock myself,

The world knocks to and froMy archery is all unlearn'd, And grief against myself has turn'd My arrows and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,

My head's ne'er out of school.-
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake

It makes me shrink and sighOn this I will not dwell and hang, The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye'

No skies so bluc, or so serene

As then ;-no leaves look half so green
As clothed the playground tree!
All things I loved are alter'd so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boyThe trowsers made of corduroy,

It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!
The careless dog's ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,

A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagg'd me !-worse is now my work:
A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart! Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again; I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd Beneath the stroke-and even find Some sugar in the cane!

Th' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The Fairy Tales in schooltime read,

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd Exactly like Miss Brown!

The "omne bene"-Christmas come'
The prize of merit won for home-
Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days-
For fame-a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!

Then home, sweet home!-the crowded coach-
The joyous shout-the loud approach—

The winding horns like rams'!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill-
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the "jams!"

When that I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind-
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

EUGENE ARAM'S DREAM.

'Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school;

There were some that ran and some that leaped, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,

And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in;
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can:

But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, bis vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide:

Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:
"O God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took-

Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook-
And, lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book!

"My gentle lad, what is't you readRomance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?"

The young boy gave an upward glance"It is The Death of Abel." "

The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain-
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;

And long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod-
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial-clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!

He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,

With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain;

For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain !

"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme-
Woe, woe, unutterable woe-

93

Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream!

"One that had never done me wrong,

A feeble man and old;

I led him to a lonely field

The moon shone clear and cold; 'Now here,' said I, 'this man shall die, And I will have his gold!'

"Two sudden blows with a rugged stick, And one with a heavy stone,

One hurried gash with a hasty knife,
And then the deed was done :
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone!

Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;

And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still;

There was a manhood in his look,

That murder could not kill!

"And, lo! the universal air

Seem'd lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by his hand,
And called upon his name!

"O God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot

Was scorching in my brain!

"My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price;

A dozen times I groaned; the dead Had never groaned but twice!

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height,

I heard a voice-the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,

And cast it in a stream,
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme;
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corse with hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool: