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Farewell, my heart's divinity! To kiss
Thy sad lip into smiles of tenderness;
To worship at that stainless shrine of bliss;
To meet the elysium of thy warm caress;
To be the prisoner of thy tears; to bless
Thy dark eye's weeping passion; and to hear
The word, or sigh, soul-toned, or accentless,
Murmur for one so vile, and yet so dear— [Fear!
Alas! 'tis mine no more!-Thou hast undone me,
Champion of freedom, pray thee, pardon me
My laughter, if I now can laugh!—(in hell
They laugh not)-he who doth now address thee
Is Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Hark! my knell !
The death-owl shrieks it. Ere I cease to fetch
These pantings for the shroud, tell me, oh tell!
Believest thou God?-Blow on a dying wretch,
Blow, wind that comest from Scotland!-Fare-
thee-well!

The owl shrieks-I shall have no other passing-bell. Rhin. As from the chill, bright ice the sunbeam flies,

So (but reluctant) life's last light retires
From the cold mirror of his closing eyes:
He bids the surge adieu !—falls back-expires!
No passing bell? Yea, I that bell will be;
Pale night shall hear the requiem of my sighs;
My wo-worn heart hath still some tears for thee;
Nor will thy shade the tribute sad despise.
Brother, farewell!-Ah, yes!-no voice replies;
But my tears flow-albeit in vain they flow-
For him who at my feet so darkly sleeps;
And freedom's champion, with the locks of snow,
Now fears the form o'er which he sternly weeps.
An awful gloom upon my spirit creeps.
My ten years' comrade! whither art thou fled?
Thou art not here! Thy lifeless picture keeps
Its place before me, while, almost in dread,
I shrink, yet gaze, and long to share thy bed.
[He retires to a corner of the dungeon
farthest from the corpse, and there con-
tinues to gaze upon it in silence.]

ON SEEING AUDUBON'S "BIRDS OF AMERICA."

"PAINTING is silent music." So said one
Whose prose is sweetest painting. Audubon !
Thou Raphael of great Nature's woods and seas!
Thy living forms and hues, thy plants, thy trees,
Bring deathless music from the houseless waste-
The immortality of truth and taste.

Thou givest bright accents to the voiceless sod;
And all thy pictures are mute hymns to God.
Why hast thou power to bear the untravell'd soul
Through farthest wilds, o'er ocean's stormy roll;
And, to the prisoner of disease, bring home
The homeless birds of ocean's roaring foam;
But that thy skill might bid the desert sing
The sun-bright plumage of the Almighty's wing?
With his own hues thy splendid lyre is strung;

For genius speaks the universal tongue. [wine

66

Come," cries the bigot, black with pride and

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"Come and hear me-the Word of God is mine!"
But I," saith He, who paves with suns his car,
And makes the storms his coursers from afar,
And, with a glance of his all-dazzling eye,
Smites into crashing fire the boundless sky-
“I speak in this swift sea-bird's speaking eyes,
These passion-shiver'd plumes, these lucid dyes:
This beauty is my language! in this breeze
I whisper love to forests and the seas;

I speak in this lone flower-this dew-drop cold-
That hornet's sting-yon serpent's neck of gold:
These are my accents. Hear them! and behold
How well my prophet-spoken truth agrees
With the dread truth and mystery of these
Sad, beauteous, grand, love-warbled mysteries!"
Yes, Audubon ! and men shall read in thee
His language, written for eternity;
And if, immortal in its thoughts, the soul
Shall live in heaven, and spurn the tomb's control,
Angels shall retranscribe, with pens of fire,
Thy forms of Nature's terror, love, and ire,
Thy copied words of God-when death-struck
suns expire.

THE PRESS.

GoD said "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,
And fled away;

Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,

And cried ""Tis day! 'tis day!"
Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd
The thunderous cloud, that flamed
O'er daises white;

And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;

And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!"
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;

Then floods of praise

Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,

And darker than the tomb?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our Sire!

Our souls have holy light within.
And every form of grief and sin

Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven!
Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour,
The night of minds is gone!

"The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,
All lands to bless :

O pallid Want! O Labour stark!
Behold, we bring the second ark!

The Press! the Press! the Press!

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM.

BEFORE thy leaves thou comest once more,
White blossom of the sloe!
Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time

Thou comest, pale flower, to me;
For well thou knowest the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lowers
O'er Nature's silent shroud!

But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doom'd untimely flowers
In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets, in the budding grove,
Peep where the glad waves run;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,

Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold, Smiles on the well in summer cold,

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The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloom'd; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother and to die-
To perish in my bloom!

Is this my sad brief history ?-
A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye
Into the tomb.

He lived and loved-will sorrow say-
By early sorrow tried;

He smiled, he sigh'd, he past away;
His life was but an April day-

He loved and died!

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep:

They whisper round me-what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true;

I ever trembled in my bliss;
Now there are farewells in a kiss—
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue-bells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood play'd,
Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel;
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept;
For I was stricken when he died-
I felt the arrow as he sigh'd
His last and slept.

COME AND GONE.

THE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow
Shine cold, and pale, and blue,

While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow
Cast on the iced oak's trunk and gray rock's brow
A ruddy hue.

The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair,
Like happy groom and bride,
With azured green, and emerald-orange glare,
Gilding the icicles from branches bare,

Lie side by side.

The door is open, and the fire burns bright,
And Hannah at the door,

Stands-through the clear, cold moon'd, and starry night,

Gazing intently towards the scarce-seen height, O'er the white moor.

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And comes he not? Yea, from the wind-swept hill The cottage-fire he sees;

While of the past remembrance drinks her fill Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the unfrozen rill Shine through green trees.

In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er the moor; In thought, the sheep-boy's call;

In thought, he meets his mother at the door;
In thought, he hears his father, old and poor,
"Thank God for all."

His sister he beholds, who died when he,
In London bound, wept o'er

Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see
Poor Edwin yet again :-he ne'er will be
Her playmate more!

No more with her will hear the bittern boom
At evening's dewy close!

No more with her will wander where the broom
Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom
And budding rose!

Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control,
Recalls us when we roam!

In living light it bids the dimm'd eye roll,
And gives a dove's wing to the fainting soul,

And bears it home.

Home!-that sweet word hath turn'd his pale lip red,
Relumed his fireless eye;

Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread;
The early rose, that seem'd for ever dead,
Returns to die.

Home! home!-Behold the cottage of the moor,
That hears the sheep-boy's call!

And Hannah meets him at the open door
With faint fond scream; and Alfred, old and poor,
"Thanks God for all!"

His lip is on his mother's; to her breast
She clasps him, heart to heart;

His hands between his father's hands are press'd;
They sob with joy, caressing and caressed:
How soon to part!

Why should they know that thou so soon, O Death!
Wilt pluck him, like a weed?

Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath?
Why dread the hectic flower, which blossometh
That worms may feed?

They talk of other days, when, like the birds,
He cull'd the wild flower's bloom,

And roam'd the moorland, with the houseless herds;

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He wept. But still, almost till morning beamed,
They talk'd of Jane-then slept.

But, though he slept, his eyes, half-open, gleam'd;
For still of dying Jane her brother dream'd,
And, dreaming, wept.

At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought

The churchyard where she lies. [wrought; He found her name beneath the snow-wreath Then from her grave a knot of grass he brought, With tears and sighs.

The hour of parting came, when feelings deep
In the heart's depth awake.

To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep,
He gave a token, which he bade her keep
For Edwin's sake.

It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress,
Together twined and tied,

He left them, then, for ever! could they less
Than bless and love that type of tenderness?—
Childless they died!

Long in their hearts a cherish'd thought they wore; And till their latest breath,

Bless'd him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er; But they beheld their Edwin's face no more

In life or death!

For where the upheaved sea of trouble foams,
And sorrow's billows rave,

Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes,
Far from the desert, where the wild flock roams,
Dug Edwin's grave.

FOREST WORSHIP.

WITHIN the sun-lit forest,
Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high:
Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing;
But, thanks to God! they can't prevent
The lone wildflowers from blowing!

High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see:

Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying;
But, thank'd be God! in spite of them,
The lark still warbles flying!
The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !"
Lord, bless us!" echo cries;
"Amen!" the breezes murmur low;
"Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of wo-worn hearts
The proud with pangs are paying,
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The humble heart is praying?
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How softly, in the pauses

Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide! With evil deeds of evil men

The affrighted land is ringing; But still, O Lord! the pious heart

And soul-toned voice are singing! Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth: "Wo to the oppressor, wo!" But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun And sadden'd flowers below; So frowns the Lord!-but, tyrants, ye Deride his indignation,

And see not in the gather'd brow

Your days of tribulation!

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher!
The tempest bursts above:
God whispers in the thunder: hear
The terrors of his love!
On useful hands, and honest hearts,

The base their wrath are wreaking; But, thank'd be God! they can't prevent The storm of heaven from speaking.

RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING.

No name hast thou! lone streamlet

That lovest Rivilin.

Here, if a bard may christen thee,

I'll call thee "Ribbledin ;"

Here, where first murmuring from thine urn,
Thy voice deep joy expresses;

And down the rock, like music, flows
The wildness of thy tresses.
Here, while beneath the umbrage
Of Nature's forest bower,

Bridged o'er by many a fallen birch,
And watch'd by many a flower,
To meet thy cloud-descended love,
All trembling, thou retirest-
Here will I murmur to thy waves
The sad joy thou inspirest.
Dim world of weeping mosses!
A hundred year ago,
Yon hoary-headed holly tree

Beheld thy streamlet flow:

See how he bends him down to hear
The tune that ceases never!

Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems,
While thou art young for ever.

Wildest and lonest streamlet!
Gray oaks, all lichen'd o'er!
Rush-bristled isles! ye ivied trunks
That marry shore to shore!
And thou, gnarl'd dwarf of centuries,
Whose snaked roots twist above me!
Oh for the tongue or pen of Burns,
To tell you how I love ye!

Would that I were a river,
To wonder all alone

Through some sweet Eden of the wild,
In music of my own;

And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew,
Distill'd o'er mountains hoary,
Return unto my home in heaven
On wings of joy and glory!

Or that I were the lichen,

That, in this roofless cave,
(The dim geranium's lone boudoir,)
Dwells near the shadow'd wave,
And hears the breeze-bow'd tree-top's sigh,
While tears below are flowing,

For all the sad and lovely things,
That to the grave are going?

Oh that I were a primrose,

To bask in sunny air!

Far, far from all the plagues that make
Town-dwelling men despair!

Then would I watch the building-birds,
Where light and shade are moving,
And lovers' whisper, and love's kiss,
Rewards the loved and loving!

Or that I were a skylark

To soar and sing above,

Filling all hearts with joyful sounds,
And my own soul with love!

Then o'er the mourner and the dead,
And o'er the good man dying,

My song should come like buds and flowers,
When music warbles flying.

Oh, that a wing of splendour,

Like yon wild cloud, were mine!

Yon bounteous cloud, that gets to give,
And borrows to resign!

On that bright wing, to climes of spring
I'd bear all wintry bosoms,

And bid hope smile on weeping thoughts,
Like April on her blossoms;

Or like the rainbow, laughing

O'er Rivilin and Don,

When misty morning calleth up

Her mountains, one by one,

While glistening down the golden broom,
The gem-like dew-drop raineth,
And round the little rocky isles

The little wave complaineth.

Oh, that the truth of beauty

Were married to my rhyme!
That it might wear a mountain charm
Until the death of Time!
Then, Ribbledin! would all the best
Of sorrow's sons and daughters
See truth reflected in my song,
Like beauty on thy waters.
No longer, nameless streamlet,
That marriest Rivilin!
Henceforth, lone Nature's devotees
Would call thee "Ribbledin,"
Whenever, listening where thy voice
Its first wild joy expresses,
And down the rocks all wildly flows
The wildness of thy tresses.

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

STRONG climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is roll'd;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daises gleam;
And here the sun-flower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils in light the snake;
And here the fire-tuft hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane!

For, oh, I love these banks of rock,
This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,

And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure,

Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature!

A world not scorn'd by Him who made

Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.
Light not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,

Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land-
A page on which the angels look,

Which insects understand!
And here, O light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,
Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide-
And that, Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,

That down from heaven in madness flings
The blind foam of its might?
Do I not hear his thunder roll-

The roar that ne'er is still?

"Tis mute as death!-but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone!

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pigmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky,

Thy feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high. O God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things

On these gray stones unseen may dwell;
What nations, with their kings?

I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-
A hundred ruin'd realms!

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impell'd by wo or whim,

May crawl some atom cliffs to see-
A tiny world to him!

Lo! while he pauses, and admires

The works of Nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night!

O God of terrors! what are we?

Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee Could smite us into nought!

But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,
And mix it with the deep,

Safe in the hollow of thine hand
Thy little ones would sleep.

HYMN.

NURSE of the Pilgrim sires, who sought,
Beyond the Atlantic foam,

For fearless truth and honest thought,
A refuge and a home!

Who would not be of them or thee
A not unworthy son,
That hears, amid the chain'd or free,
The name of Washington!

Cradle of Shakspeare, Milton, Knox!
King-shaming Cromwell's throne!
Home of the Russells, Watts, and Lockes!
Earth's greatest are thine own:

And shall thy children forge base chains
For men that would be free?

No! by thy Elliots, Hampdens, Vanes,
Pyms, Sydneys, yet to be!

No!-for the blood which kings have gorged Hath made their victims wise,

While every lie that fraud hath forged

Veils wisdom from his eyes:

But time shall change the despot's mood:
And mind is mightiest then,
When turning evil into good,
And monsters into men.

If round the soul the chains are bound
That hold the world in thrall-
If tyrants laugh when men are found
In brutal fray to fall-

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