I hear the shepherd's mountain flute-
I hear the whispering tree;-

The echoes of my soul are mute:
-Where is my own blue sea?

1

TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.1

How is it that before mine eyes,
While gazing on thy mien,
All my past years of life arise,
As in a mirror seen ?

What spell within thee hath been shrined,
To image back my own deep mind?

Even as a song of other times

Can trouble memory's springs;
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes
Can wake departed things;

Even as a scent of vernal flowers

Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours;

Such power is thine!-they come, the dead,
From the grave's bondage free,

And smiling back the changed are led,
To look in love on thee;

And voices that are music flown

Speak to me in the heart's full tone:

1 Painted by W. E. West, in 1827, and engraved in the first volume of this publication.

TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress-
The thoughts of happier years,
And a vain gush of tenderness
O'erflows in child-like tears;

A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while-oh! almost strange,
Mine imaged self! it seems

That on thy brow of peace no change
Reflects my own swift dreams;

Almost I marvel not to trace

Those lights and shadows in thy face.

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep
Affection - Memory — Grief—

Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep
O'er a frail aspen-leaf!

O that the quiet of thine eye

Might sink there when the storm goes by!

Yet look thou still serenely on,

And if sweet friends there be,
That when my song and soul are gone
Shall seek my form in thee,-

Tell them of one for whom 'twas best
To flee away and be at rest!

167

NO MORE.

No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,
A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words-those murmurs of

farewell

No more!

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,
To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice—

No more!

A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,

Or join the household laughter by the blaze-
No more!

Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove,
With all our native music in the air;
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,
And turn, and read our own heart's answer there-
No more!

Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's-the woe Their passion breathes-the desolately deep! That sound in Heaven-oh! image then the flow

Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weep

No more!

NO MORE.

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,

To waste the untold riches of the heart

169

No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love'-and never quench that thirst, To pour the soul out, winning no return,

O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed

No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead;
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fled-

No more!

Words of triumphant music-bear we on
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn in joy;-to struggle, to despair-

No more!

"Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j'aime," was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël's.

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,

This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I loved the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart!

PASSING AWAY.

"Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains.

Ir is written on the rose,
In its glory's full array-
Read what those buds disclose-

It is written on the skies

"Passing away."

Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's dyes-

"Passing away."