Clouds that love through air to haster.,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride – How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families ! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Gray-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slurnbers — by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over Desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands, Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal ; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul.

Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the Wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering :
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The Warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the Band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
- They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his fowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.

TO A LADY,

IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.

Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade,
I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed ? How they in sprightly dance are worn

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give, Your portraits still may reach the heart

And there for gentle pleasure live; While Fancy ranging with free scope

Shall on some lovely Alien set A name with us endeared to hope,

To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace: A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,

A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmed mind

Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,

A new Forget-me-not.

From earth to heaven with motion fleet

From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet

And there a Shepherd's weather-glass ;

Stranger, 't is no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage

Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the Nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations,

Like yon Tuft of FERN;

When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked – the rivers backward ran That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! Fire raged, — and, when the spangled floor Of apcient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy Souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly ’mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth!

Such it is; the aspiring Creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless Thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow ;-
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait - and you shall see how hollow

Its endeavouring !"

STRAY PLEASURES.

- Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea: Waking at morn he murmured not ; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.

By their floating Mill,

That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the

Thames !
The platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

From the shore come the notes

To their Mill where it floats, To their House and their Mill tethered fast; To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past.

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

“Who but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure

With great enterprise ;

In sight of the Spires,

All alive with the fires Of the Sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free
While they dance on the calm river's breast,

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them, — what matter? 't is theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The Showers of the Spring

Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; Each Wave, one and t’ other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!

ON SEEING A

NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.

THE WORK OPE, M. 8.

Frowns are on every Muse's face,

Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace

The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.

Even her own Needle that subdued

Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,

Like station could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's child,

A living Lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled

To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice,

“ Bard ! moderate your ire; “Spirits of all degrees rejoice

“In presence of the Lyre. “ The Minstrely of Pygmean bands,

" Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, " Have shells to fit their tiny hands

" And suit their slendor lays.