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Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,
Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! Oh, matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime!-that horror-striking blade,
Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shudder’d the walls,—the marble city wept,And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace the appointed victim slept, As he had fallen, in magnanimity:
Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just
To his own native greatness, to desire That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Released from life and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his fate,“ Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY
Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he
- It is the generous spirit who, when brought
THE POWER OF VIRTUE.
All true glory rests, All praise of safety, and all happiness, Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes ; Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves; Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ! And the arts died by which they had been raised. -Call Archimedes from his buried tomb Upon the plain of vanish'd Syracuse, And feelingly the sage shall make report How insecure, how baseless in itself Is that philosophy, whose sway is framed For mere material instruments:- How weak Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropp'd By virtue."
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ! INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY,
Where is it now, the glory and the dream! FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness, THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and spring,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home;
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy ; It is not now as it hath been of yore;
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy :
The youth, who daily farther from the east The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
Must travel, still is nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The sunshine is a glorious birth,—
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, But yet I know, where'er I go,
And, even with something of a mother's mind, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
And no unworthy aim, Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, And while the young lambs bound
Forget the glories he hath known, As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief;
And that imperial palace whence he came. A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,And I again am strong;
A six years' darling of a pigmy size! The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; | See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, And all the world is gay :
Some fragment from his dream of human life, Land and sea
Shaped by himself with newly learned art: Give themselves up to jollity,
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song: Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long Ye to each other made ; I see
Ere this be thrown aside, The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part, —
Filling from time to time his humorous stage' The fulness of your bliss—I feel—I feel it all.
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That life brings with her in her equipage ;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ;-
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest, Both of them speak of something that is gone : Which we are toiling all our lives to find, The pansy at my feet
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Doth the same tale repeat:
Thou, over whom thy immortality
In the soothing thoughts that spring
In the faith that looks through death, -
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 1. I love the brooks, which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Broods like the day,-a master o'er a slave,
O joy! that in our embers
What was so fugitive!
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise,
Blank misgivings of a creature
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
To perish never ;
Nor man nor boy.
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
EVENING BY THE THAMES.
How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent course pursues !
A little moment past so smiling!
Some other loiterer beguiling.
But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let hiin nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? Glide gently thus, for ever glide,
O Thames ! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow,
As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought !-Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless,
Who, murmuring here a later* ditty, Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.
Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound !
Ye that pipe, and ye that play,
Feel the gladness of the May !
We will grieve not rather find
Collins's Ode on the Death of THOMSON, the last written of the poems which were published during his lifetime.
SCORN NOT THE SONNET.
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.
A NATION'S POWER NOT IN ARMIES. Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd | The power of armies is a visible thing And tongues that utter'd wisdom-better none; Formal and circumscribed in time and space; The latter Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,
But who the limits of that power shall trace, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. Which a brave people into light can bring These moralists could act and comprehend : Or hide at will,-for freedom combating They knew how genuine glory was put on; By just revenge inflamed ? No foot may chase, Taught us how rightfully a nation shone (bend No eye can follow, to a fatal place In splendour; what strength was, that would not That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Butin magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Within its awful caves. From year to year Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change !
Springs this indigenous produce far and near; No single volume paramount, no code,
No craft this subtle element can bind, No master spirit, no determined road;
Rising like water from the soil, to find But equally a want of books and men!
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
Nor more, for aught that time supplies,
LUlled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude nature's pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queent Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dweils “Our Lady of the Snow.” The sky was blue, the air was mild ; Free were the streams and green the bowers; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had ever shown A countenance that as sweetly smiledThe face of summer hours. And we were gay, our hearts at ease; With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed; all we knew of careOur path that straggled here and there; Of trouble-but the fluttering breeze; Of winter-but a name. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days—but hush-no more ! Calm is the grave, and caliner none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou victim of the stormy gale ; Asleep on Zurich's shore ! Oh Goddard ! what art thou ?A sunbeam followed by a shade!
We parted upon solemn ground
* The lamented youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a elergyınan in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a swiss lour, when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, look leave of each other at niglit, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. Bit early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third gucceeding day (the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard pe. rished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Küsnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores loo of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves,
Mount Righi-Regina Montium.
Beloved by every gentle muse, He left his transatlantic home : Europe, a realized romance, Had opened on his eager glance ; What present bliss !--what golden views ! What stores for years to come! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised—or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly uttered praise ; The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred; As evening's fondly lingering rays On Righi's silent brow. Lamented youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the stranger paid ; And piety shall guard the stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their preyAnd that which marks thy bed. And, when thy mother weeps for thee, Lost youth! a solitary mother ; This tribute from a casual friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother.*
The porsuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afllicted mother felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her daughter, who visited Europe some years af. terwards.-Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.