And Song made answer" It is not in me, Though call'd immortal; though my gifts may be

All but divine.

A place of lonely brightness I can give:

A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live

This is not mine!"

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil?
And Death, the Strong One, spoke:-" I can but still
Each vain regret.

What if forgotten?-All thy soul would crave,
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave,
Wilt soon forget."

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die,
As from all nature's voices one reply,

But one-was given.

"Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own

Seek it in Heaven."

DARTMOOR.

A PRIZE POEM.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.

May ne'er

That true succession fail of English hearts,
That can perceive, not less than heretofore
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive,

the charm

Or pious sentiment, diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.

CAMPBELL.

WORDSWORTH.

AMIDST the peopled and the regal Isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of

power;
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne,
And mark❜d a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore,
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore,
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent,
When empires totter'd, and the earth was rent;

Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind

Had still'd life's busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush'd with power in daring pride's excess,
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given;
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, 'midst thy mountains
rude,

Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,

As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky,
A mourner, circled with festivity!

For all beyond is life!—the rolling sea,

The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare,
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wand'rer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,

And nought of life be near; his camel's tread
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands-
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd,
Not without record; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away
The proud creations rear'd to brave decay.
But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name

No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Who shall unfold thine annals?—who shall tell
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell,

In those far ages, which have left no trace,
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race?
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days

Of kings and chiefs, who pass'd without their praise,
Thou might'st have rear'd the valiant and the free ;
In history's page there is no tale of thee.

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled,' But hallow'd by that instinct which reveres Things fraught with characters of elder years. And such are these. Long centuries are flown, Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne, Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, With what they hide their shrined and treasured dust;

Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold

Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
'Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms

Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the

storms.

Yet, what avails it, if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath

(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's

breath?

Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest,

Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desert's breast?
Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene

Where now the flocks repose?-did the scythed car
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?

4

It may be thus:--the vestiges of strife, Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell 2 How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride, The chieftain's power-they had no bard, and died. 3 But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains, And pure bright dews, have laved the crimson stains Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore, When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, And many a crested oak, which now lies low, Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe ; Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade, On Druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play'd, And spells were breath'd, that fill'd the deepening gloom

With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb.