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BY WILLIAM SOTHEBY.
Spirit! who lov'st to live unseen,
By brook, or pathless dell, Where wild woods burst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen,
Gush from their flinty cell!
Or where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone, Haunts the cool grotto, daylight-proof, Where loitering drops that wear the roof
Turn all beneath to stone.
Shield me from summer's blaze of day,
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
Till twilight spreads her veil.
Then guide me where the wandering moon
Rests on Mæcenas' wall,
The peaceful waterfall.
Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the flood, the glade ;
Above the dark cascade.
Down the steep cliff I wind my way
Along the dim retreat,
Where clashing cataracts meet.
And now I leave the rocks below,
And issuing forth from night,
And arch my way with light.
Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,
Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath,
Low trail their purple bloom.
Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark flood, and rivulet clear,
Of music on the ear:
And thou, that when the wandering moon
Illumed the rocky dell,
Spirit unseen ! farewell!
Farewell ! — o'er many a realm I go,
My natal isle to greet,
O'er Freedom's hallowed seat.
Yet there, to thy romantic spot
Shall Fancy oft retire, And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where Earth's sole Lord the world forgot,
And Horace smote the lyre.
BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime !
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some!
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by; Saying, we are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go, For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will; –
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
skies To watch the fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded grasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast: The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from Death!
On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
On earth's sepulchral clod,
Or shake his trust in God!
BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.
Oh, would I were among the bowers,
Thy waters, Witham! love to lave, Where Botolph's far-distinguished towers
Look out upon the German wave. There is a star upon that stream,
A flower upon those banks there blows, – Heaven cannot boast a lovelier beam,
Nor earth possess a sweeter rose.
How blest were I, how more than blest,
To sit me down such scenes among, And there, the cot's contented guest,
Divide my life 'twixt love and song; To guard thee, sweet, and in thine ears
Plead passion, not perchance in vainThe very vision costs me tears
Of mingled tenderness and pain.
Alas! how different is
lotTo drag through being far from thee, Far from that loved, Elysian spot,
Which Witham leaves in tears with me. But pilgrim of whatever shore,
No fate from thee my heart shall tear; And even when life itself 's no more,
My spirit will be with thee there.