Nay, why lament the doom which mocks control?
The buried are not lost, but gone before.

Then dry thy tears, and see the river roll

O'er rocks, that crowned yon time-dark heights of yore,
Now, tyrant-like, dethroned, to crush the weak no more.
The young are with us yet, and we with them:
Oh, thank the Lord for all he gives or takes-
The withered bud, the living flower, or gem!
And He will bless us when the world forsakes!
Lo! where thy fisher-born, abstracted, takes,
With his fixed eyes, the trout he cannot see!
Lo! starting from his earnest dream, he wakes!
While our glad Fanny, with raised foot and knee,

Bears down at Noe's side the bloom-bowed hawthorn tree.

Dear children! when the flowers are full of bees;

When sun-touched blossoms shed their fragrant snow;
When song speaks like a spirit, from the trees
Whose kindled greenness hath a golden glow;
When, clear as music, rill and river flow,
With trembling hues, all changeful, tinted o'er
By that bright pencil which good spirits know
Alike in earth and heaven-'tis sweet, once more,
Above the sky-tinged hills to see the storm-bird soar.

"Tis passing sweet to wander, free as air,
Blithe truants in the bright and breeze-blessed day,
Far from the town-where stoop the sons of care
O'er plans of mischief, till their souls turn gray,
And dry as dust, and dead-alive are they-

Of all self-buried things the most unblessed:

O Morn! to them no blissful tribute pay!

O Night's long-courted slumbers! bring no rest

To men who laud man's foes, and deem the basest best!

God! would they handcuff thee? and, if they could,
Chain the free air, that, like the daisy, goes

To every field; and bid the warbling wood
Exchange no music with the willing rose

For love-sweet odours, where the woodbine blows

And trades with every cloud and every beam

Of the rich sky! Their gods are bonds and blows,

Rocks, and blind shipwreck; and they hate the stream

That leaves them still behind, and mocks their changeless dream.

They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome me,
Thus glad to meet, by trouble parted long!
They never saw ye-never may they see
Your dewy beauty, when the throstle's song
Floweth like starlight, gentle, calm, and strong!
Still, Avarice, starve their souls! still, lowest Pride,
Make them the meanest of the basest throng!
And may they never, on the green hill's side,
Embrace a chosen flower, and love it as a bride!

Blue Eyebright!* loveliest flower of all that grow

In flower-loved England! Flower, whose hedge-side gaze
Is like an infant's! What heart doth not know,
Thee, clustered smiler of the bank! where plays
The sunbeam with the emerald snake, and strays

The Germander Speedwell.

The dazzling rill, companion ol the road

Which the lone bard most loveth, in the days

When hope and love are young? Oh, come abroad,
Blue Eyebright! and this rill shall woo thee with an ode.
Awake, blue Eyebright, while the singing wave
Its cold, bright, beauteous, soothing tribute drops
From many a gray rock's foot and dripping cave;
While yonder, lo, the starting stone-chat hops!
While here the cotter's cow its sweet food crops;
While black-faced ewes and lambs are bleating there:
And, bursting through the briers, the wild ass stops-
Kicks at the strangers-then turns round to stare-
Then lowers his large red ears, and shakes his long dark hair.
Pictures of Native Genius.

O faithful love, by poverty embraced!
Thy heart is fire amid a wintry waste;

Thy joys are roses born on Hecla's brow;

Thy home is Eden warm amid the snow;

And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm,
Clings then most fondly to thy guardian form;
E'en as thy taper gives intensest light,

When o'er thy bowed roof darkest falls the night.]
Oh, if thou e'er hast wronged her, if thou e'er
From those mild eyes hast caused one bitter tear
To flow unseen, repent, and sin no more!
For richest gems, compared with her, are poor;
Gold, weighed against her heart, is light-is vile;
And when thou sufferest, who shall see her smile?
Sighing, ye wake, and sighing, sink to sleep,
And seldom smile without fresh cause to weep
(Scarce dry the pebble, by the wave dashed o'er,
Another comes, to wet it as before);

Yet while in gloom your freezing day declines,
How fair the wintry sunbeam when it shines!
Your foliage, where no summer leaf is seen,
Sweetly embroiders earth's white veil with green;
And your broad branches, proud of storm-tried strength,
Stretch to the winds in sport their stalwart length.

And calmly wave, beneath the darkest hour,

The ice-born fruit, the frost-defying flower.

Let luxury, sickening in profusion's chair,

Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir,

And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble too!

But love and labour, blush not, fear not you!

Your children-splinters from the mountain's side→

With rugged hands, shall for themselves provide.

Parent of valour, cast away thy fear!

Mother of men, be proud without a tear!

While round your hearth the woe-nursed virtues move,
And all that manliness can ask of love;

Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair;

Remember Arkwright, and the peasant Clare.

Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood-notes wild,
And richest Shakspeare was a poor man's child,

Sire, green in age, mild, patient, toil-inured,

Endure thine evils as thou hast endured.

Behold thy wedded daughter, and rejoice!

Hear hope's sweet accents in a grandchild's voice
See freedom's bulwarks in thy sons arise,

And Hampden, Russell, Sidney in your eyes!
And should some new Napoleon's curse subdue
All hearths but thine, let him behold them too,
And timely shun a deadlier Waterloo.

Northumbrian vales! ye saw in silent pride, w!
The pensive brow of lowly Akenside,

When, poor, yet learned, he wandered young and free,
And felt within the strong divinity.

Scenes of his youth, where first he wooed the Nine,
His spirit still is with you, vales of Tyne!

As when he breathed, your blue-belled paths along,
The soul of Plato into British song.

Born in a lowly hut an infant slept,

Dreamful in sleep, and sleeping, smiled or wept:
Silent the youth-the man was grave and shy:
His parents loved to watch his wondering eye:
And lo! he waved a prophet's hand, and gave,
Where the winds soar, a pathway to the wave!
From hill to hill bade air-hung rivers stride,
And flow through mountains with a conqueror's pride:
O'er grazing herds, lo! ships suspended sail,
And Brindley's praise hath wings in every gale!

The worm came up to drink the welcome shower;
The redbreast quaffed the raindrop in the bower;
The flaskering duck through freshened lilies swam;
The bright roach took the fly below the dam;
Ramped the glad colt, and cropped the pensile spray;
No more in dust uprose the sultry way;
The lark was in the cloud; the woodbine hung
More sweetly o'er the chaffinch while he sung;
And the wild rose, from every dripping bush,
Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirrored blush;
When calmly seated on his panniered ass,
Where travellers hear the steel hiss as they pass,
A milk-boy, sheltering from the transient storm,
Chalked, on the grinder's wall, an infant's form;
Young Chantrey smiled; no critic praised or blamed;
And golden Promise smiled, and thus exclaimed:
'Go, child of genius! rich be thine increase;
Go-be the Phidias of the second Greece!'

A Poet's Prayer.

Almighty Father! let thy lowly child,
Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold-
A patriot bard by sycophants reviled,

Let him live usefully, and not die old!

Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays,

Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been.

And when he ends his pilgrimage of days,

Let him be buried where the grass is green,
Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late

To hear the bee his busy note prolong;

There let him slumber, and in peace await

The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng,

Who scorn the wind-flower's blush, the redbreast's lovely song.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

MR. BAYLY (1797-1839) was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age, and he composed a number of light dramas. He was the son of a solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church,

he studied for some time at Oxford, but ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife :

Oh, No! We never Mention Him.

Oh no! we never mention him, his name is never heard;
My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word:
From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret;
And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see;
But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me.
"Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,
I do not see the hawthorn-tree; but how can I forget?
For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me-
The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;
The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set;
Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget.

They tell me he is happy now, the gayest of the gay;

They hint that he forgets me, too-but I heed not what they say:
Perhaps like me he struggles with each feeling of regret ;
But if he loves as I have loved, he never can forget.

This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His songs contain the pathos of a section of our social system; but they are more calculated to attract attention by their refined and happy diction, than to melt us by their feeling. Several of them, as The Soldier's Tear,' 'She Wore a Wreath of Roses;' 'Oh, no! We never Mention Him;' and 'We met-'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extraordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, ‘I'd be a Butterfly' was the most felicitous: it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms exceeding even Horace in gaiety.

What though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day:
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life's winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay-
I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away!

THE REV. JOHN KEBLE.

In 1827 appeared a volume of sacred poetry, entitled 'The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year.' The work has had extraordinary success. The object of the author was to bring the thoughts and feelings of his readers into more entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the English Prayer-Book, and some of his little poems have great tenderness, beauty, and devotional feeling. Thus, on the text: 'So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city' (Genesis, xi. 8), we have this descriptive passage:

Since all that is not Heaven must fade,
Light be the hand of Ruin laid

Upon the home I love:

With lulling spell let soft Decay
Steal on, and spare the Giant sway,

The crash of tower and grove.

Another text (Proverbs, xiv. 10)

ment:

Far opening down some woodland deep'
In their own quiet glades should sleep
The relics dear to thought,

And wild-flower wreaths from side to side
Their wavering tracery hang, to hide

What ruthless Time has wrought. suggests a train of touching senti

Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die,
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe

Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart,
Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow,

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.

The following is one of the poems entire:

Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity.

The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.-Habakkuk,

ii 3.

The morning mist is cleared away,

Yet still the face of heaven is gray,

Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirred the grove,

Faded yet full, a paler green

Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,

The redbreast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of 'calm decay,'

Saluting sorrow as you may,

As one still bent to find or make the best,
In thee, and in this quiet mead,
The lesson of sweet peace I read,
Rather in all to be resigned than blest.