By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains, And the gray rocks-and all the arched woods ringing,

And the young branches trembling to the strains Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine winging

Their fearless flight-and sylvan echoes round,
Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound;

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams,
And the low cadence of the silvery sea,
And reed-notes from the mountains, and the

beams

Of the warm sun-all these are for the free!

With all its clouds in burning glory piled,
Had been shut out by long captivity;
Such, freedom was to Tasso.-As a child
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye
In its too radiant glance, from day to day,
Reads that which calls the brightest first away.
And he became a wanderer-in whose breast
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth
sleep,

Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest,
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep
Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest

O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep

Their spirit still had haunted.-Could it be

That he had borne the chain?-oh! who shall

dare

stealth,

By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth.
But wo for those who trample o'er a mind!
A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,

bear?

So deep a root hath hope!-but wo for this,
Our frail mortality, that aught so bright,
So almost burthened with excess of bliss,
As the rich hour which back to summer's light
Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss
Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight
Of the green earth, must so be bought with years
Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears;

And feeding a slow fire on all its powers,
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain,
If hardly won at length, too late made ours
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers
Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again
To lift their heads in glory.-So doth Earth
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth.

bind

The flower his step hath bruised; or light anew
The torch he quenches; or to music wind
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew-
But for the soul!-oh! tremble, and beware
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there!
For blindness wraps that world—our touch may

turn

Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung,
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should
burn

To point the way a thousand rocks among-
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Though binding down the terrible, the strong,
Th' o'ersweeping passions-which to loose on life
Is to set free the elements for strife!
Who then to power and glory shall restore
That which our evil rashness hath undone?
Who unto mystic harmony once more

On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar
Called up to sunlight by his fantasy-

And, when the shining desert-mists that wore The lake's bright semblance, have been all passed by,

The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain-wave,
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save.

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought,
And made too precious by long hopes and fears,
Remains our own-love, darkened and o'er-
wrought

By memory of privation, love, which wears
And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought,
Becomes the shadow of our closing years,
Making it almost misery to possess
Aught, watched with such unquiet tenderness.
Such unto him, the bard, the worn and wild,
And sick with hope deferred, from whom the sky,

He that through dust the stream of life can pour, The Mighty and the Merciful alone!

-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their snadeHe leaves to man the ruin man hath made!—

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démouroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie." Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sighed
The citron's breath went by;
While the deep gold of eventide
Burned in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close

Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,

Hushed as by words of power.

With bright, fixed, wondering eyes that gaze1 Up to their mother's face;

With brows through parting ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look

Of mournfulness was spreadForth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read;

The proud, undying lay, which poured
Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed,
Young holy hearts were stirred;
And the meek tears of woman flowed

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turned-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud, yet restless eye.

But drops that would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gushed free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
'Forgotten! e'en by thee!

"Am I so changed?-and yet we two

Oft hand in hand have playedThis brow hath been all bathed in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made.
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain-

My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-
Tell me those words again!

'It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all

men.

'Life hath been heavy on my head;

I come, a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."

-She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept,
Shook all her thrilling frame-

She fell upon his neck, and wept,

And breathed her brother's name.

Her brother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?
-He was the bard of gifts divine,
To sway the hearts of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the Sword and Pen!

TO THE POET WORDSWORTH.
THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills,
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 some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There 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 lie-
Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touched by thee,
Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad

wanderer free!

THE SONG OF THE CURFEW.

HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!
Sadly 't was heard by him who came

From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth's flame In his children's eyes make light.

Sadly and sternly heard

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheered the board, with the mirthful word,

And the red wine's foaming flow
Until that sullen, booming knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight, and with a chain.

Wo for the wanderer then

In the wild-deer's forests far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.

And wo for him, whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings filled,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were stilled.

And yet a deeper wo,

For the watchers by the bed, Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low, And rest forsook the head.

For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness, in chieftain's hall!

Darkness, in peasant's cot!

While Freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize,
For blood hath flowed like rain,

Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again!

Heap the yule-fagots high,

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.
OH! lovely voices of the sky
Which hymned the Saviour's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang,
"Peace on earth?"

To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in time gone by,
Ye blessed the Syrian swains,

Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams That hour Heaven's glory shed,

Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherd's head.

Be near, through life and death,
As in that holiest night
Of hope, and joy, and faith-

Oh! clear and shining light!

Oh! star which led to Him, whose love Brought down man's ransom freeWhere art thou?-'midst the host above, May we still gaze on thee?

In Heaven thou art not set,

Thy rays earth may not dim,
Send them to guide us yet,

Oh! star which led to Him!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

"But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves; for the wind was contrary," St. Matthew, xiv. 24.

FEAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill-

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased!-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast,

As when the righteous falls asleep,

When death's fierce throes are past.
Thou that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood-
Oh! send thy spirit forth in power,
O'er our dark souls to brood!

He knew them all-the doubt, the strife,
The faint, perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All darkened round His head!
And the Deliverer knelt to pray-
Yet passed it not, that cup, away.

It passed not-though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath His tread;

It passed not-though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.

But there was sent Him from on high
A gift of strength, for man to die.*

And was His mortal hour beset

With anguish and dismay?

-How may we meet our conflict yet,

In the dark, narrow way?

How, but through Him, that path who trod? Save, or we perish, Son of God!

THE SUNBEAM.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy
glow,

Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains-a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brakest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of summer, oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!

-One thing is like thee, to mortals given,-
The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven,

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood

Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood;
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth.

He heard its life's first murmuring sound,
A low mysterious tone;

A music sought, but never found

By kings and warriors gone;
He listened and his heart beat high-
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror's mood

Rushed burning through his frame, The depths of that green solitude

Its torrents could not tame, Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Round those calm fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars-across his soul
There swept a sudden change,
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal,

A shadow dark and strange, Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour-And is this all?

No more than this!-what seemed it now
First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow

Bathed his own mountain land!
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild sweet voices called him back.

They called him back to many a glade,

His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away;

They called him, with their sounding waves,
Back to his fathers' hills and graves.

But darkly mingling with the thought
Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught

With all that lay between;
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?

The spirit born to roam?
His weary heart within him died

With yearnings for his home;
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
He wept-the stars of Afric's heaven
Beheld his bursting tears,

E'en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years.

-Oh, happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!*

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.
YES, thou hast met the sun's last smile,
From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright gean isle,

Thou hast seen the billows foam:
From the silence of the Pyramid

Thou hast watched the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below:

Thy heart hath burned as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain:

• The arrival of Bruce at what he considered to be the source of the Nile, was followed almost immediately by feelings thus suddenly fluctuating from triumph to despondence See his Travels in Abyssinia.

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales

Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind's deep whispers told!
Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread,

Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto Heaven.

For o'er the snows, and round the pines,
Hath swept a noble flood;

The nurture of the peasant's vines

Hath been the martyr's blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region poured,
Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep

Of long-enduring faith,

And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant where his sires

For truth and freedom bled, Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, Where lay the holy dead;

And he will tell thee, all around,

On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois' foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the sabbath bell is heard
Up through the wilds to float,
When the dark old woods and caves are stirred
To gladness by the note;

When forth, along their thousand rills,

The mountain people come,

Join thou their worship on those hills
Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent's voice
Like the swell of many an organ blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice!

*See "Gilly's Researches amongst the Mountains of Piedmont," for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summits of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year, assemble on that sacred day, to worship in the open air