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And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
Miserere Domine!
Hark! the cadence dies away,

On the quiet moonlight sea :
The boatmen rest their oars and say,

Miserere Dominie !



A SUNNY shaft did I behold

From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled

Within that shaft of sunny mist; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,

All else of amethyst !

And thus he

Sang :

Adieu! adieu ! Love's dreams prove seldom true. The blossoms, they make no delay : The sparkling dewdrops will not stay. Sweet month of May, We must away; Far, far away!

To day! to day !


UP, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!

To the meadows trip away.
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay;

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse :
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay :

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.





THE cloud doth gather, the green-wood roar,

The damsel paces along the shore; The billows they tumble with might, with might; And she flings out her voice to the darksome

night; Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ;

Be you as dull as e'er you could,
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good)
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
And though you stayed a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;
Yet with kind heart and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still ;
Nor should you go away, dear Rain !
Uninvited to remain.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.


TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW. WHAT though the chilly wide-mouthed quack

ing chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak. So was it, neighbor, in the times before us, When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, Was married to—at least he kept-all nine) Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, They had allured the audacious Greek to use, Swore they mistook him for their own good man. This Momus-Aristophanes on earth, Men called him-maugre all his wit and worth Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should


Or I, friends, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, “I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!"

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. SINCE all that beat about in Nature's range

Or veer or vanish! why should'st thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning thought! that liv'st but in the brain ? Call to the hours, that in the distance play, The faery people of the future dayFond thought! not one of all that shining swarm Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, Till when, like strangers shelt’ring from a storm, Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! Yet still thou haunt’st me; and though well I see, She is not thou, and only thou art she, Still, still as though some dear embodied good, Some living love before my eyes there stood With answering look a ready ear to lend, I mourn to thee and say—“Ah! loveliest friend ! That this the meed of all my toils might be, To have a home, an English home, and thee !" Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one. The peacefull’st cot, the moon shall shine upon, Lulld by the thrush and wakened by the lark, Without thee were but a becalmed bark, Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when The woodman winding westward up the glen

At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist’ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An image* with a glory round its head;
The enamored rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues !

THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. E RE the birth of my life, if I wished it or no,

No question was asked me—it could not be so If the life was the question, a thing sent to try, And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die.

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you are!

NATURE'S ANSWER. Is't return’d, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the

wear ? Think first, what

Call to mind what you were ! I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ? Make out the invent’ry ; inspect, compare ! Then die-if die


dare ! * This phenomenon, which the author has himself experienced, and of which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, is applied figuratively in the following passage of the Aids to Reflection:

“ Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of music, on different characters, holds equally true of Genius ; as many as are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognises it as a projected form of his own being, that moves before him with a glory round its head, or recoils from it as a spectre.”Aids to Reflection, p. 220.

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