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Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night,
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning play'd. The busy people wing their various flight,
Ah, what their strange surprise, their wild delight ! Culling unnumber'd sweets from nameless flowers,
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight! That scent the vineyard in its purple hours.
In a new world they wake, as from the dead ; Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play,
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fed ! Caught through St. James's groves a blush of day;
O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth,

Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health! | Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings.
Long, in this shelter'd scene of letter'd talk, Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease,
With sober step repeat the pensive walk ;

Though skill'd alike to dazzle and to please; Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please, Though each gay scene be search'd with anxiouseye, The cheap amusements of a mind at ease; Nor thy shut door be pass’d without a sigh. Here every care in sweet oblivion cast,

If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more, And many an idle hour-not idly pass'd.

Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee, No tuneful echoes, ambush'd at my gate,

explore; Catch the blest accents of the wise and great.

Invoke the Lares of this loved retreat, Vain of its various page, no Album breathes And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet; The sigh that friendship or the muse bequeaths. Then be it said, (as, vain of better days, Yet some good genii o'er my hearth preside, Some gray domestic prompts the partial praise,) Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide;

“ Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest ; And there I trace, when the gray evening lours,

Reason his guide, and happiness his guest. A silent chronicle of happier hours !

In the clear mirror of his moral page, When Christmas revels in a world of snow,

We trace the manners of a purer age. And bids her berries blush, her carols flow; His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, His spangling shower when frost the wizard flings; Scorn’d the false lustre of licentious thought. Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings,

-One fair asylum from the world he knew, O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves,

One chosen seat, that charms with various view! And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves; Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) -Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues,

Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes,

Through each he roves, the tenant of a day, Screen'd from the arrowy north ; and duly hies

And, with the swallow, wings the year away!" To meet the morning-rumour as it flies, To range the murmuring market-place, and view The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. When spring bursts forth in blossoms through the vale,

Man is born to suffer. On the door And her wild music triumphs on the gale,

Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile ; Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,

As of a mother singing to her child; Framing loose numbers, till declining day

All now in anguish from that room retire, Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray; Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, Till the west-wind leads on the twilight hours, And innocence breathes contagion-all but one, And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. But she who gave it birth—from her alone

Nor boast, O Choisy ! seat of soft delight, The medicine cup is taken. Through the night, The secret charm of thy voluptuous night.

And through the day, that with its dreary light Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour,

Watching the changes with her anxious eye: Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen, While they without, listening below, above, Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene,

(Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) To bail our coming. Not a step profane

Èrom every little noise catch hope and fear, Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain ; Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal’d, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness Pure and unbought,—the natives of my field; That would in vain the starting tear repress. While blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite, Such grief was ours-it seems but yesterdayStill clad in bloom, and veil'd in azure light ; When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, With wine, as rich in years as Horace sings, "Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh With water, clear as his own fountain flings, At midnight in a sister's arms to die ! The shifting sideboard plays its humbler part, Oh thou wert lovely_lovely was thy frame, Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art.

And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ? Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught And, when recall'd to join the blest above, With mental light, and luxury of thought,

Thou died'st a victim to exceeding love, My life steals on; (Oh could it blend with thine !) Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, Careless my course, yet not without design. When idle fancy wove luxuriant fowers, So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, Once in thy mirth thou bad’st me write on thee; The light raft dropping with the silent tide; And now I write-what thou shalt never see !


TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stillid is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peusants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music dows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest !

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. (hung,

Now staind with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweetend every meal with social glee, The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest ; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'T was here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy futter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.

Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye Mark J each pure thought, ere register'd on high ; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feeling of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight! And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 't was heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time ?

That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive

thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved forms, still breathing through

their dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life—all whisper of the past !

As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond allusions swarm in every grove ! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest ; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with friendship’s votive rhyme, The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time; Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade; Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat !

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene ; The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green ! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that heaven assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape T'ime'smeek twilightsteals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. (gray,

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams !

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot--there we stood and gazed ; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rified roost at nightly revel fed! [shade, Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose ellin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbb’d my fluttering pulse with hopes and

fears, To learn the colour of my future years !

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest !


We led the bending beggar on his way,
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray)
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And sigh'd to think that little was no more,
He breath'd his prayer, “ Long may such goodness

live !" 'T was all he gave, 't was all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight.

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd ; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day,

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth ! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered ; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined !

Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far-fed spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good! Blest Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. As studious Prospero's mysterious spell Drew every subject-spirit to his cell ; Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And through the frame invisibly convey The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; Man's little universe at once o'ercast, At once illumined when the cloud is past.

Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where, gray with age, the dial stands; That dial so well known to me!

- Though many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy isles fed far away ;
That with its woods and uplands green
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day ;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead :
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told;
His arm that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain hold.

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last;
And, thy shady region pass'd,
Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood;
Great Ocean's self ! ("T is He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)
Where many an elf was playing round,
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide ;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant feet
Advancing as in haste to meet ;
The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain ;
All into midnight shadow sweep-
When day springs upward from the deep!
Kindling the waters in its flight,
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!
Glad sign and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads friendship and to thee !

Oh, blest retreat and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toli'd duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her--the Lady of the Glen!


Weary of his life,

Francesce flew to Venice, and, embarking, Ir ever you should come to Modena,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. (Where among other relics you may see

Donati lived—and long might you have seen Ì'assoni's bucket—but 't is not the true one)

An old man wandering as in quest of something, Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,

Something he could not find-he knew not what. Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati,

When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

Silent and tenantless then went to strangers. And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, Will long detain you—but, before you go,

When on an idle day, a day of search Enter the house--forget it not, I pray you

Mid the old lumber in the gallery, And look awhile upon a picture there.

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, The last of that illustrious family;

Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not.

"T was done as soon as said ; but on the way He who observes it-ere he passes on,

It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,

With here and there a pearl, an einerald-stone, That he may call it up, when far away.

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. She sits, inclining forward as to speak,

All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring, Her lips half open, and her finger up,

And a small seal, her mother's legacy, As though she said « Beware!” her vest of gold

Engraven with a name, the name of both, Broider'd with flowers and clasp'd from head to foot,

“ Ginevra." An emerald stone in every golden claspi

There then had she found a grave ! And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, A coronet of pearls.

Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; But then her face,

When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

Fastened her down for ever!
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has iled,
Like some wild melody!
Along it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,

Tae Jark has sung his carol in the sky;
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,

The bees have humm'd their noontide harmony; With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ; Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, A chest that came from Venice, and had held Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound: The ducal robes of some old ancestor

For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
That, by the way—it may be true or false Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their pray’r,
But don't forget the picture; and you will not, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
When you have heard the tale they told me there. The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. [hail

She was an only child-her name Ginevra ; A few short years—and then these sounds shall
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father ; The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine : She was all gentleness, all gayety,

And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, Bat now the day was come, the day, the hour; The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, • ’T was on these knees he sate so oft and smiled.” The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum; And soon again shall music swell the breeze; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting. In every cottage porch, with garlands green,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
« 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !"

While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
And fill'd his glass to all ; but his hand shook, Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. And once, alas, nor in a distant hour,
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
Laughing and looking back and Aying still, When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.

And weepings heard where only joy has been; But now, alas! she was not to be found;

When by his children borne, and from his door Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd, Slowly departing to return no more, But that she was not !

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.



Well might De Thou,

When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court, Among the awful forms that stand assembled Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through In the great square of Florence, may be seen

The ancient palace—through those ample spaces That Cosmo, not the father of his country,

Silent, deserted-stop awhile to dwell Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.

Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall Clad in rich armour like a paladin,

Together, as of two in bonds of love, But with his helmet off, in kingly state,

One in a cardinal's habit, one in black, Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ;

Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer And they who read the legend underneath

From the deep silence that his questions drew, Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is The terrible truth. A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls

Well might he heave a sigh Could speak and tell of what is done within,

For poor humanity, when he beheld Would turn your admiration into pity.

That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest,

Drowsy and deaf, and inarticulate, All be discover'd when the fit was on,

Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess, All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd

In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale; From broken sentences, and starts in sleep,

His wife, another, not his Eleanora,
Is told, and by an honest chronicler.

At once his nurse and his interpreter.
Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia,
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer,)
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni,
His best beloved, the glory of his house,

Return'd not; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas,

It was a well
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And, having caused the body to be borne

And richly wrought with many a high relief, In secret to that chamber, at an hour

Greek sculpture-in some earlier day perhaps When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother, A tomb, and honour'd with a hero's ashes. Who little thought of what was yet to come, The water from the rock fill'd, overflow'd it; And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia

Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal, Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand And soon was lost-stealing unseen, unheard, A winking lamp, and in the other a key

Through the long grass and round the twisted roots Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ;

Of aged trees; discovering where it ran
And, having entered in and lock'd the door, By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
The father fix'd his eyes upon the son,

I threw me down; admiring, as I lay,
And closely question'd him. No change betray'd | That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up

That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, The bloody sheet. “ Look there! Look there!” More than enough to please a child a-Maying. he cried,

The sun was down, a distant convent-bell “ Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand! Ringing the Angelus ; and now approach'd Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. The hour for stir and village-gossip there, “What!” he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the The hour Rebekah came, when from the well sight,

She drew with such alacrity to serve The boy breathed out, “I stood but on my guard.” | The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard “ Dar’st thou then blacken one who never wrong'd Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path thee,

Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear’d, Who would not set his foot upon a worm? Appear'd and vanish’d, bearing on her head Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all." Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed, Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger, Like one awaking in a distant time. That fatal one which spilt bis brother's blood; At length there came the loveliest of them all, And, kneeling on the ground, “Great God !” he Her little brother dancing down before her; cried,

And ever as he spoke, which he did ever, “Grant me the strength to do an act of justice, Turning and looking up in warmth of heart 'Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas, And brotherly affection. Stopping there, How can I spare inyself. sparing none else? She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them Grant me the strength, the will.--and oh! forgive With the pure element, gave him to drink; The sinful soul of a most wretched son.

And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tip”T is a most wretched father who implores it." Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, (toe, Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept

Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue. Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom;

Then, hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, And then, but while he held him by the arm, Thou hadst endow'd them with immortal youth; Thrusting him backward, turned away his face, And they had evermore lived undivided, And stabb'd him to the heart.

Winning all hearts of all thy works the fairest.

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