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Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze :

Day and night and day go by
To the ceaseless tune of these.
Or when, as wind and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,

And day and night and day
Here the stillness is most deep.
And the ruins, lapsed again
Into nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain,

As day and night and day go by,
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed ;
And now the graves are also dead,
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,

As day and night and day go by,
And stars move calmly over-head.



It was a holy usage to record

Upon each refectory's side or end
The last mysterious supper of our Lord,

That meanest appetites might upward tend.
Within the convent-palace of old Spain, -

Rich with the gifts and monuments of kings, Hung such a picture, said by some to reign

The sov'ran glory of those wondrous things. A painter of far fame, in deep delight,

Dwelt on each beauty he so well discern’d; While, in low tones, a gray Geronomite

This answer to his ecstasy return'd. Stranger ! I have received my daily meal

In this good company now three-score years ; And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel

How time these lifeless images endears. Lifeless ! ah, no, while in mine heart are stored

Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, Familiar places vacant round our board,

And still that silent supper lasting on !

While I review my youth,—what I was then,

What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all,-
It seems as if these were the living men,
And we the colour'd shadows on the wall.”

Monckton Milnes.

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It is the midnight hour :—the beauteous sea,
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses;
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,
Far down within the watery sky reposes.
The mighty moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,-
A zone of dim and tender light,
That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the night looks like a mellow'd day!
The gracious Mistress of the Main
Hath now an undisturbèd reign ;
And from her silent throne looks down,

children of her own,
On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest !



A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem’d, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. Wilson.

TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS. Sleep breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.


I sit me down and think

Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;
And calmly midst my dear ones,

Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press

And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness;

The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new ;
Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father, too;
My light where'er I go,

My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion,-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.

“ He has departed”–
“ His voice-his face—'tis gone!”.
To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure

That it will not be so.
Yes still he's fixed and sleeping,

This silence, too, the while
Its very hush and creeping

Seems whispering as a smile :
Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,
“We've finished here."

Leigh Hunt.

Who say,


The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,


And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze,
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage-trees ;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ;
And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing;
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town ;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
Already in the streets the stir


Of expectation and a bustling crowd.
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;
And armèd bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.

Leigh Hunt.

RIMINI.The days were then at close of autumn still, A little rainy, and towards nightfall chill ; There was a fitful moaning air abroad; And ever and anon over the road The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, Whose trunks now thronged to sight in dark varieties. The people, who from reverence kept at home, Listened till afternoon to hear them come; And hour on hour went by, and naught was heard But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirred, Till towards the vesper-hour; and then 'twas said Some heard a voice, which seemed as if it read; And others said that they could hear a sound Of many horses trampling the moist ground. Still nothing came_till on a sudden, just As the wind opened in a rising gust,

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A voice of chanting rose; and as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers, who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turned aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled.
But of the older people, few could bear
To keep the window when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching slow and steadily,
On which these two in senseless coldness lay,
Who but a few short months—it seemed a day-
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind,
In sunny manhood he-she first of womankind.
They say, that when Duke Guido saw them come,
He clasped his hands, and looking round the room,
Lost his old wits for ever.

From the morrow
None saw him after. But no more of sorrow.
On that same night those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave under a tree;
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground: and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.

Leigh Hunt.


How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us; and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed, as we shall know for ever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths-angels that are to be,
Or may be, if they will and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,-
A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

Leigh Tunt.



Great New Street and Fetter Lane.

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