In soul from the iron bondage of my frame,
The wings of some glad dove would I then take;
And, like that dove sole-sitting in a tree,
Enjoy the sylvan silence, by fair shapes
Haunted, -by Dryad, or, than Dryad far
Lovelier, some simple human shepherdess
Seeking lost lamb, or floweret in the woods ;
Or, in a bolder mood, the sounding plumes
Of the golden eagle I would borrow, fresh
With light and dew of morning, and aloft,
Soaring in glorious metamorphosis,
Make heaven and earth my own—as lightning quick
Mine eye-my wing far stronger than the storm.

Vain boast! for in that desert's loneliness
My spirit, faithless to her sacred trust,
Forsook her stay upon the past, and fell
Into a mortal fit as blank as death!

In that dim trance, lo! something at my feet,
That in its wavering bloom seemed beautiful!
The beauty indistinct of form, and hue,
And motion — for the vision gently moved
Like light on water -- almost dazzling — bright,
Yet in its brightness tenderly subdued
Down into faint and melancholy smiles !
With startled spirit, even as one awakes
From dreamless sleep, soon as his face is touched
By the rayed fingers of the rosy morn,
I gazed and gazed; and then the beauty grew,
Burnishing up by fine and fine degrees,
Into a happy Family of Flowers,
In their delight delighting all the desert,
Though narrow was their mossy nook of home,
The wild wide as the sea !

Nor grass nor herb, Nought but their own fair selves were smiling there, As if they all had sprouted suddenly,

Laden with full-blown blossoms, and with buds
Half-blown between, with stalks most delicate,
From the thin soil o'ergrown with yellow moss
That shared their beauty; or had fallen down,
Immortal flowers ! from the

pure coronal
Of seraph swimming through our lower skies,
One hour away from heaven!

A whispering wind, Self-born amid the silence, like a thought, A cheerful thought, not unembued with love, Nor unallied to tears, almost a sigh, Touched these sweet Harebells,—for I knew their names, Even through the uncertain glimmer of their blue And skiey beauty,—and a shower of pearls, Shook from their petals, bathed the stalks as fine As gossamer, and slipt along the leaves, The tiny leaves almost invisible Thus hid in dew, and as the dew expired, Now greener than the green of emeralds. Fancy, awakened by their loveliness, Believed one moment that she heard a chime From these blue bells, as from the magic reins Of that green-armoured elfin chivalry, That wont of old, beneath the moon and stars, In many a glittering squadron, through the woods And down the glens of Scotia to deploy, In long succession, while the lady-fern The cavalcade o'ershadowed, and the hind Or shepherd lonely and belated, viewed With beating heart, and with the holy sign Across his bosom drawn unconsciously, Ride by, the Fairy Queen and all her court!

But Fancy's dreams are transient in their flight,
As the thin thistle-down-those of the heart
Are in their nature permanent and pure,
As fragrance vested in the rose-bud's cell.
So, suddenly methought, those Harebells fair

All bended towards one central luminary,
The fairest of them all—the parent flower!
Like to young children, on some Sabbath eve,
Some deep-hushed hour of pious ecstasy,
Leaning with tearful faces towards one
By all beloved, the mother of them all;
And mute as images, when from the Book,
The Holy Book, spread open on her knees,
She reads some scriptural story steeped in woe-
Of Abel near his grassy altar killed
Even by his brother Cain—or Joseph sold
To slavery by his brethren;-can such guilt
Be born beneath the skies ? -or Absalom
Rebelling 'gainst his father, and bemoaned
By the old man,“ Would I had died for thee!
O Absalom! Absalom! my son! my son!”

The fine association filled

my

soul With an access of love, that overflowed My inmost being, like a flood of light Poured all at once into a room that fronts The East, when an impatient hand unbars A little bolt, and of our clay-built walls A window, to the windows of high heaven Exposed, lets morning in through all the house, Rejoicing in its tenant--the bright sun!

Still were the moorland Harebells beautiful In their own mute insensate nature, breathing Of God amid the wild; but from that shew So exquisite of heavenly workmanship, Emblems of beings far more exquisite In the endowment of immortal souls, I turned me round in gushing tenderness, And, manifest before my eyes, lo! stood Even the very flesh, no phantoms they, My own dear family, my children blest, And in the midst their mother-wife beloved ! The gentle one, whose gentle life they share,

Whose joy is oft like sadness, and her sadness
Oft but a dim faint shadow of her joy!

What love—what bliss—may be concentrated In one uprising of the soul within us, During one single comprehensive moment, In time a point, and as a sunbeam fleet, The swelling and the dying of a wave! Yet to the wondrous being who enjoys it, Like a long summer day, and deep and full Of mystery as the multitudinous sea. Unto the blessed phantoms, for indeed Phantoms they were, although I knew it not, Few were the tenderest words I did address In that my dear delusion! One I drew Close to my heart, within my folding arms, And with a father's prayer I kissed that head, So star-like, all the while her Christian name Murmuring, “my Mary !" and the child was blest ! Soon was her place most lovingly supplied By my bright Margaret, and the phantom sang Without my bidding, the sad favourite air That I might almost wish to hear her sing Upon my death-bed, for 't is like a hymn, And breathes of something far beyond the grave ! I felt a pressure on my knees; and lo! That merry elf, my rosy-cheeked Jane, Hung back her head with all its links of light, And laughed up in my face so joyously That in the sweet contagion of her glee I started, for an instant undeceived, At my own laughter in the wilderness. But wild, and likewise bold, as roes at play, Danced round me my two boys, then disappeared Behind a knoll, and then with shouts and springs Careering through the heather, breathless came Back to my feet, and laid them gently down, By pastime given into the arms of sleep. While, meekly standing, some small space apart,

Y

That she might there more tranquilly enjoy
My joy, upon a sunny spot I saw
The Guardian Angel of my mortal life ;
And sure no sooner met our eyes than met
Our hearts; but in that meeting broke the spell,
Beneath too strong a stir of happiness!
A vanishing! and I was left alone
In the dark desert, while the Harebells smiled

Like disenchanted flowerets at my feet!
Edinburgh Literary Journal.

STANZAS.

BY THE HON. ST. GEORGE TUCKER.

Days of my youth! ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and grey;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrowed all o'er;
Strength of my youth! all your vigour is gone;
Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth! I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth! I'm content ye shall fall;
Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth! bathed in tears have ye been;
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth! why lament your decay ?

Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age! but awhile can ye last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age! be ye fixed on your God.