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T

To the Memory of Thomas Hood.

AKE back into thy bosom, earth,

This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever mirth

Gave to be reared by sorrow!

'T is hard-while rays half green, half gold,
Though vernal bowers are burning,
And streams their diamond mirrors hold
To Summer's face returning-

To say we're thankful that his sleep
Shall nevermore be lighter,

In whose sweet-tongued companionship
Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter!

But all the more intensely true
His soul gave out each feature
Of elemental love-each hue

And grace of golden nature-
The deeper still beneath it all

Lurked the keen jags of anguish;

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The more the laurels clasped his brow
Their poison made it languish.
Seemed it that, like the nightingale
Of his own mournful singing,
The tenderer would his song prevail
While most the thorn was stinging.
So never to the desert-worn

Did fount bring freshness deeper Than that his placid rest this morn Has brought the shrouded sleeper. That rest may lap his weary head Where charnels choke the city,

Or where, 'mid woodlands, by his bed
The wren shall wake its ditty;
But near or far, while evening's star
Is dear to hearts regretting,
Around that spot admiring thought

Shall hover, unforgetting.

-Bartholomew Simmons.

To Wordsworth.

HINE is a strain to read among the hills,

TH

The old and full of voices;-by the source

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
Then let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hushed the woods, with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music linked with household words; While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling as of spring, around,
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.
True bard and holy! Thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters ¡ie;
Unseen awhile they sleep, till, touched by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer

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"H

Heine's Grave.

'ENRI HEINE"-'it is here!

The black tombstone, the name

Carved there-no more! and the smooth
Swarded alleys, the limes

Touched with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still
In September's bright afternoon
Shadow and verdure and cool!
Trim Montmartre ! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside;
Crisp everlasting flowers,
Yellow and black on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets'
Uproar, surely not loth
Wast thou, Heine, -to lie
Quiet! to ask for closed

Shutters, and darkened room,

And cool drinks, and an eased
Posture, and opium, no more!
Hither to come, and to sleep
Under the wings of Renown.

Ah! not little, when pain
Is most quelling, and man
Easily quelled, and the fine
Temper of genius alive
Quickest to ill. is the praise
Not to have yielded to pain!
No small boast for a weak
Son of mankind, to the earth
Pinned by the thunder, to rear
His bolt-scathed front to the stars,
And, undaunted, retort
'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,
Tyrannous tempests of bale,

Arrowy lightnings of soul!

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AKE one example-to our purpose quite.

TAK

A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had, and fame, beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,
And reputation, and luxurious life:
Yet, not content with ancestral name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step. Above him seemed,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.

No cost was spared. What books he wished, he read;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first, in rambling schoolboy days,
Britannia's mountain walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dewdrops pure and fair, his soul

With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wished:
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battlefields, where valor fought

In other days; and mused on ruins gray

With years; and drank from old and fabulous wells,
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked;
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave

Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw;
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

He touched his harp, and nations heard entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,

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