Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more, And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.

And hence the charm historic scenes impart :
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale

Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale;
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.

"Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom:
So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honour'd dust disclosed,
The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?

In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: We gaze on every feature till it lives!

Still the fond lover sees the absent maid,
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The father's features in his infant face.
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
Won by the raptures of a game at play;
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

What though the iron school of war erase
Each milder virtue and each softer grace;
What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemn'd to climb his mountain cliffs no more.

If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm, Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm;

Why great Navarre, when France and Freedom bled,
Sought the lone limits of a forest shed.
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,
Say why we trace the labours of his spade
In calm Salona's philosophic shade.

Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne,
To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew,
What claim'd the sorrow of a last adieu?
The still retreats that sooth'd his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled and its cares oppress'd.

HUMAN LIFE.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby.
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn Hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

[hail

A few short years, and then these sounds shall
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine;
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,

The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, ""Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is Human Life! so, gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel harps at midnight's witching hour!

The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd; The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. And, now the mother's ear has caught his cry, Oh, grant the cherub to her asking eye!

He comes: she clasps him. To her bosom press'd, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Her, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows; How soon by his the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.

Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue),
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How bless'd to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care.
Apart she joins his little hands in pray'r,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye: now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh, he would follow, follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,

If now he wears the habit of a man,

Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of Life. Careering round,
Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
"These are my jewels!" Well of such as he,
When Jesus spake, well might his language be,
"Suffer these little ones to come to me!"

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres The brow engraven with the thoughts of years;

Close by her side, his silent homage given,
As to some pure intelligence from Heaven;
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame,
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame,
At once lit up as with a holy flame!

He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire;
And soon with tears relinquish'd to the sire,
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led,
Holds secret converse with the mighty dead;
Trembles, and thrills, and weeps as they inspire,
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire!
Like her most gentle, most unfortunate,
Crown'd but to die: who in her chamber sate
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown,
And every ear and every heart was won,

And all in green array were chasing down the sun!
Then is the age of admiration: then

Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men,
Who breathe the soul of inspiration round,
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground!
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire,
And high imagining and thought of fire!
Then, from within, a voice exclaims, " Aspire!"
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass,
As in the cave athwart the wizard's glass;
They that on youth a grace, a lustre shed,
Of every age-the living and the dead!
Thou, all-accomplish'd Surrey, thou art known;
The flower of knighthood, nipp'd as soon as blown!
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone!

And, with his beaver up, discovering there
One who loved less to conquer than to spare,
Lo! the black warrior, he who, battle-spent,
Bareheaded served the captive in his tent!
Young Byron in the groves of Academe,

Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream;
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum,
Dreaming old dreams-a joy for years to come;
Or on the rock within the sacred fane,

Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain :