What is the Poet's highest aim, His richest heritage of fame? -To track the warrior's fiery road, With havoc, spoil, destruction, strow'd, While nations bleed along the plains, Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains? -With fawning hand to woo the lyre, Profanely steal celestial fire, And bid an idol's altar blaze With incense of unhallow'd praise? - With syren strains, Circean art, To win the ear, beguile the heart, Wake the wild passions into rage, And please and prostitute the age?

NO!-to the generous Bard belong Diviner themes and purer song: -To hail Religion from above, Descending in the form of Love, And pointing through a world of strife The narrow way that leads to life: -To pour the balm of heavenly rest Through Sorrow's agonising breast; With Pity's tender arms embrace The orphans of a kindred race; And in one zone of concord bind The lawless spoilers of mankind : -To sing in numbers boldly free The wars and woes of Liberty; The glory of her triumphs tell, Her nobler suffering when she fell,' Girt with the phalanx of the brave, Or widow'd on the patriot's grave, Which tyrants tremble to pass by, Even on the car of Victory.

These are the Bard's sublimest views,
The angel-visions of the Muse,
That o'er his morning slumbers shine;
These are his themes, and these were mine.
But pale Despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While youth and folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to Man,
Breathed a dark spirit through my-lyre,
Dimm'd the noon-radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.

1 "Più val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire."
GAETANA PASSERINI.

Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flow'd not from my heart in vain ;
The lay of freedom, fervour, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd HER ear; She raised her languid head to hear, And, smiling in the arms of Death, She bless'd me with her latest breath.

A secret hand to me convey'd The thoughts of that inspiring Maid; They came like voices on the wind, Heard in the stillness of the mind, When round the Poet's twilight walk Aërial beings seem to talk: Not the twin-stars of Leda shine With vernal influence more benign, Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale, Sings the lone warbling nightingale, Than through my shades her lustre broke, Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.

My fancy form'd her young and fair, Pure as her sister-lilies were, Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace, With every charm of soul and face, That Virtue's awful eye approves, And fond Affection dearly loves; Heaven in her open aspect seen, Her Maker's image in her mien.

Such was the picture fancy drew, In lineaments divinely true; The Muse, by her mysterious art, Had shown her likeness to my heart, And every faithful feature brought O'er the clear mirror of my thought. -But she was waning to the tomb; The worm of death was in her bloom: Yet, as the mortal frame declined, Strong through the ruins rose the mind; As the dim moon when night ascends, Slow in the east the darkness rends, Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams, Pours the mild splendour of her beains, Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,

Free as a disembodied soul !

And if to thine approving ear

My plaintive numbers once were dear ;
If, falling round thy dying hours,
Like evening dews on closing flowers,

They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul
With melancholy sweetness stole,

HEAR ME:- When slumber from mine eyes,
That roll in irksome darkness, flies;
When the lorn spectre of unrest
At conscious midnight haunts my breast;
When former joys, and present woes,
And future fears, are all my foes;
Spirit of my departed friend,

Calm through the troubled gloom descend,
With strains of triumph on thy tongue,
Such as to dying saints are sung;
Such as in Paradise the ear
Of God himself delights to hear;
-Come, all unseen; be only known
By Zion's harp of higher tone,

Warbling to thy mysterious voice;
Bid my desponding powers rejoice;
And I will listen to thy lay,
Till night and sorrow flee away,
Till gladness o'er my bosom rise,
And morning kindle round the skies.

If thus to me, sweet saint, be given To learn from thee the hymns of heaven, Thine inspiration will impart Seraphic ardours to my heart; My voice thy music shall prolong, And echo thy entrancing song; My lyre with sympathy divine Shall answer every chord of thine, Till their consenting tones give birth To harmonies unknown on earth. Then shall my thoughts, in living fire Sent down from heaven, to heaven aspire; My verse through lofty measures rise, A scale of glory to the skies, Resembling, on each hallow'd theme, The ladder of the Patriarch's dream, O'er which descending angels shone, On carthly missions from the Throne, Returning by the steps they trod, Up to the Paradise of God.