ON A MUSICAL BOX.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell

Caged by the law of man's resistless might! With thy sweet, liquid notes, by some strong spell, Compell'd to minister to his delight, Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight, And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell? Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art

singing,

Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing, And sail upon the sunset's amber glow? When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme, Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream,

Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam,

Whilst thou in darkness sing'st thy life away. And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee; When in the wide creation nothing mourns,

Of all that lives, save that which is not free? Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer, How would thy little voice beseeching cry, For one short draught of the sweet morning air, For one short glimpse of the clear, azure sky! Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt be free, Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling; While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee, To every bud with honey-dew distilling. That hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay, Thou'st be a shunn'd and a forsaken thing, 'Mongst the companions of thy happier day. For fairy sprites, like many other creatures, Bear fleeting memories, that come and go; Nor can they oft recall familiar features,

By absence touch'd, or clouded o'er with wo. Then rest content with sorrow for there be Many that must that lesson learn with thee; And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail, For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail, Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!

A WISH.

OH! that I were a fairy sprite to wander In forest paths, o'erarch'd with oak and beech; Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays, Sleeps on the dewy moss; what time the breath Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs, And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms. Or lie at sunset mid the purple heather, Listening the silver music that rings out From the pale mountain bells, sway'd by the wind. Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,

While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

LINES

WRITTEN IN LONDON.

STRUGGLE not with thy life!-the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
Thou shalt go crush'd and ground, though ne'er
so brave.

Complain not of thy life!-for what art thou More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not weep?

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrow'd brow, And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life!-patience shall see

The perfect work of wisdom to her given; Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

FRAGMENT.

WALKING by moonlight on the golden margin That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking Of all the wild imaginings that man Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with; Making fair nature's solitary haunts Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful. And as the chain of thought grew, link by link, It seem'd as though the midnight heavens wax'd

brighter,

The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light play'd o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven or earth it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed;
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swell'd, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze; it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun

Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads

Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams. Anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch or flower
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly did I mark; one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glisten'd, like a pearl, in its white bosom.

THE VISION OF LIFE.

DEATH and I

On a hill so high

Stood side by side,

And we saw below,
Running to and fro,

All things that be in the world so wide.

Ten thousand cries

From the gulf did rise,

With a wild, discordant sound;

Laughter and wailing,
Prayer and railing,

As the ball spun round and round.

And over all

Hung a floating pall

Of dark and gory veils:

'Tis the blood of years,
And the sighs and tears

Which this noisome marsh exhales.

All this did seem
Like a fearful dream,

Till Death cried, with a joyful cry:
"Look down! look down!
It is all mine own,

Here comes life's pageant by!"

Like to a masque in ancient revelries,
With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,
They came along, and still they came along!
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e'er
Peopled the earth or plough'd the unfathom'd deep,
All that now breathe the universal air,
And all that in the womb of time yet sleep.

Before this mighty host a woman came,
With hurried feet and oft-averted head;

With accursed light
Her eyes were bright,

And with inviting hand them on she beckoned. Her follow'd close, with wild acclaim, Her servants three: Lust, with his eye of fire, And burning lips, that tremble with desire,

Pale, sunken cheek; and, as he stagger'd by, The trumpet-blast was hush'd, and there arose A melting strain of such soft melody

As breathed into the soul love's ecstasies and woes.

Loudly again the trumpet smote the air,

The double drum did roll, and to the sky Bay'd war's blood-hounds, the deep artillery;

And Glory,
With feet all gory,

And dazzling eyes, rush'd by,
Waving a flashing sword and laurel wreath,
The pang and the inheritance of death.

He pass'd like lightning-then ceased every sound
Of war triumphant, and of love's sweet song,
And all was silent. - Creeping slow along,
With eager eyes that wander'd round and round,
Wild, haggard mien, and meager, wasted frame,
Bow'd to the earth, pale, starting Avarice came:

Clutching with palsied hands his golden god, And tottering in the path the others trod.

These, one by one,

Came, and were gone:

And after them follow'd the ceaseless stream
Of worshippers, who with mad shout and scream,
Unhallow'd toil, and more unhallow'd mirth,
Follow their mistress, Pleasure, through the earth.
Death's eyeless sockets glared upon them all,
And many in the train were seen to fall,
Livid and cold, beneath his empty gaze:

But not for this was stay'd the mighty throng, Nor ceased the warlike clang, or wanton lays,

But still they rush'd-along-along-along!

A PROMISE.

Br the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with drops of wo,

As when I last took leave of it and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life's early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I

Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last falter'd them o'er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,

With youth's clear, laughing voice of melody. On the wild shore of the eternal deep,

Where we have stray'd so oft, and stood so long Watching the mighty water's conquering sweep, And listening to their loud, triumphant song, At sunny noon, dearest! I'll be with thee;

Not as when last I linger'd on the strand, Tracing our names on the inconstant sand; But in each bright thing that around shall be: My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast, Thou'lt see my hair in its bright showery crest, In its dark rocky depths thou'lt see my eyes, My form shall be the light cloud in the skies, My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright, And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs
The livelong day dost chant that wondrous strain,
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee? Who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note

That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start, And fill'd my weary eyes with the soul's rain.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT.

THE hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those happy hours, when down the mountain-side We saw the rosy mists of morning glide, And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way, Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those sunny hours, when from the midday heat We sought the waterfall with loitering feet, And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool, Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love!

Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky,
Alike without a cloud, without a ray,
The round red autumn moon came glowingly,

While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love!

Those blessed hours when the bright day was past, And in the world we seem'd to wake alone, When heart to heart beat throbbingly and fast, And love was melting our two souls in one.

AMBITION.

THOU poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil
Of life, which I am doom'd to till full sore,
Spring'st like a noisome weed! I do not toil
For thee, and yet thou still com'st darkening o'er

My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.
Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs
All fair and gentle buds hang withering,
Why hast thou wreath'd thyself around my brows,
Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,
Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade!
Alas! thou art an evil weed of wo,
Water'd with tears and watch'd with sleeplesscare;
Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;
And yet men covet thee-ah, wherefore do they so!

TO

OH! turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,

I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow

By the warm blood that mantles there.

TO A PICTURE.

O SERIOUS eyes! how is it that the light,

The burning rays, that mine pour into ye, Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark as night

O lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me? O lips! whereon mine own so often dwell, Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch no spell To waken sense in ye? - misery!O breathless lips! can ye not speak to me? Thou soulless mimicry of life; my tears

Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain; I press thee to my heart, whose hopes and fears Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain. O thou dull image! wilt thou not reply To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

SONNET.

THERE'S not a fibre in my trembling frame

That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name. When thou art with me every sense seems dull,

And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee; My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, And my bewilder'd spirit seems to swim

In eddying whirls of passion, dizziły. When thou art gone there creeps into my heart A cold and bitter consciousness of pain: The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart, And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look and tone; And suddenly I wake and am alone.

VENICE.

NIGHT in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hush'd seems its motion
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
Onward she's treading,
Till its dark line is lost,
'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the green billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,

And round her marble crown
Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow,
Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the blue lagune
Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies between
To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar,
Brilliantly shining,
Gleams like a fallen star
Venice reclining.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES is a native of Yorkshire, and was born about the year 1806. On the completion of his education at Cambridge he travelled a considerable time on the Continent, and soon after his return home was elected a member of the House of Commons, for Pontefract. He has voted in Parliament with the Tories, but has won little distinction as a politician.

The poetical works of Mr. MILNES are Memorials of a Tour in Greece, published in 1834, Poems of Many Years, in 1838, Poetry for the People, in 1840, and Palm Leaves, in 1844. The last volume was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant in 1842 and 1843, and is an attempt to instruct the western world in oriental modes of thought and feeling, by a series of poems in the oriental spirit, not an unsuccessful effort, but one with precedents, both in England and on the Continent. A complete edition of his writings, in four volumes, has recently been published in London by Mr. Moxon. I believe none of them have been reprinted in this country.

LONELY MATURITY.

WHEN from the key-stone of the arch of life
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,-

If then, as well may be, he stand alone,

How will his heart recall the youthful throng,
Who leap'd with helping hands from stone to stone,
And cheer'd the progress with their choral song!
How will sad memory point where, here and there,
Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate,
From him or from each other parted were,
And love sometimes become the nurse of hate.

Yet at this hour no feelings dark or fierce,
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,-
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.

Rather, he thinks, he held not duly dear

Love, the best gift that man on man bestows, While round his downward path, recluse and drear, He feels the chill, indifferent shadows close. Old limbs, once broken, hardly knit together,Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine; Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather; Experience tests and mars the sense divine;

60

In Leucas, one of his earlier productions, Mr. MILNES discloses his poetical theory. Reproaching SAPPHO, he says,

"Poesy, which in chaste repose abides,
As in its atmosphere; that placid flower

Thou hast exposed to passion's fiery tides."

With him poetry is the expression of beauty, not of passion, and no one more fully realizes his own ideal in his works, which are serene and contemplative, and pervaded by a true and genial philosophy. They are unequal, but there is about them that indescribable charm which indicates genuineness of feeling. This is particularly observable in the pieces having reference to the affections. The simplicity of the incidents portrayed, and the seeming artlessness of the diction, sometimes remind us of WORDSWORTH, but there is a point and meaning in his effusions which makes him occasionally superior to the author of the Excursion in pathos, however much he may at times fall below him in philosophical sentiment. Probably no one among the younger poets of England has founded a more enduring or more enviable reputation.

Thus now, though ever loth to underprize
Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears,
Still worthier seems to his reflective eyes
The friendship that sustains maturer years.

"Why did I not," his spirit murmurs deep,
"At every cost of momentary pride,
Preserve the love for which in vain I weep;
Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside?

"Oh cruel issue of some selfish thought!
Oh long, long echo of some angry tone!
Oh fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught,
Alone to linger and to die alone!
"No one again upon my breast to fall,
To name me by my common Christian name,—
No one in mutual banter to recall

Some youthful folly or some boyish game; "No one with whom to reckon and compare The good we won or miss'd; no one to draw Excuses from past circumstance or care, And mitigate the world's unreasoning law ! "Were I one moment with that presence blest, I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain, I would invade the soul I once possest, And once for all my ancient love regain!"

THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE.

I HAVE no comeliness of frame,
No pleasant range of feature;
I'm feeble, as when first I came
To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;
But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.

The trivial part in life I play

Can have so light a bearing

On other men, who, night or day,

For me are never caring;

That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,

I know that I am tempted less,-
And that is consolation.

The beautiful! the noble blood!
I shrink as they pass by,-
Such power for evil or for good
Is flashing from each eye;
They are indeed the stewards of Heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!

'Tis true, I am hard buffetted,
Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;

But then I think, "had I been born,-
Hot spirit-sturdy frame-

And passion prompt to follow scorn,-
I might have done the same."

To me men are for what they are,
They wear no masks with me;
I never sicken'd at the jar
Of ill-tuned flattery;

I never mourn'd affections lent

In folly or in blindness ;-
The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking kindness.

And most of all, I never felt
The agonizing sense

Of seeing love from passion melt

Into indifference;

The fearful shame, that day by day
Burns onward, still to burn,

To have thrown your precious heart away,
And met this black return.

I almost fancy that the more

I am cast out from men,

Nature has made me of her store

A worthier denizen;
As if it pleased her to caress
A plant grown up so wild,
As if the being parentless
Made me the more her child.
Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
I fall into the dewy grass,
And cool my fever'd cheek;

And hear a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,

A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.

My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,

But yet I always run,

As to a father's morning kiss,

When rises the round sun;

I see the flowers on stalk and stem,

Light shrubs, and poplars tall,

Enjoy the breeze, -I rock with them,

We're merry brothers all.

I do remember well, when first

I saw the great blue sea,

It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;

My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow;
I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.

The lamb that at it's mother's side
Reclines, a tremulous thing,
The robin in cold winter-tide,
The linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,
And love my slender hand,-
For we are bound, by God's decree,
In one defensive band.

And children, who the worldly mind
And ways have not put on,

Are ever glad in me to find
A blithe companion:

And when for play they leave their homes,

Left to their own sweet glee,

They hear my step, and cry, "He comes,
Our little friend,-'tis he."

Have you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend
Your eyes to one particular light,

Till it became a friend?

And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far
Or more or less, it matter'd not,-
It still was your own star.

Thus, and thus only, can you know,

How I, even scornéd I,

Can live in love, though set so low,
And my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,
The meanest, lornest thing of all-
Still owns its right to love.

With no fair round of household cares

Will my lone heart be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs
Will touch a loving breast;
No darling pledge of spousal faith
Shall I be found possessing.
To whom a blessing with my breath
Would be a double blessing: