BOOKS AND FLOWERS. Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages 221 Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, and anguish, For some high place where faith her wing might rest, Are burning here-a flame that may not languishStill pointing upward to that bright hill's crest! Their grief, the veil'd infinity exploring For treasures lost, is here;-their boundless love Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring On all things round, and clasping all above. And the bright beings, their own heart's creations, Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still; Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations Are here, and victories of prevailing will! Listen, oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee! Or would'st thou turn to earth? Not earth all furrow'd Look on these flowers! As o'er an altar shedding, O'er Milton's page, soft light from colour'd urns! They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns. They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream, Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; -Too richly dower'd, O friend! are we for sadnessLook on an empire-mind and nature—ours! FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA ATTENDED BY ANGELS. "How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! Waft her to glory, winged powers, Ere sorrow be renew'd, And intercourse with mortal hours Bring back a humbler mood!" WORDSWORTH. How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, No, not to thee!-thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of bliss. FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA. 223 Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling, Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies? Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling, For the deep cedar shades of Paradise! What strain?-oh! not the nightingale's when showering Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay, She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, And pours her strength, but not her grief, away: And not the exile's-when, 'midst lonely billows, And not the pilgrim's-though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his ave song, when day grows dim; Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, Something of sadness floats through that low hymn. But thou!-the spirit which at eve is filling Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling, This is the soul of thy rich harmony. This bears up high those breathings of devotion THE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF EASTLAKE'S. DARK chieftain of the heath and height! Thou, against whom the voice of blood There's one that pale beside thee stands, More true than all thy mountain bands! She will not shrink in doubt and dread, When the balls whistle round thy head: Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye No longer may to hers reply. Oh! many a soft and quiet grace THE CHILD'S RETURN. Yet, mournfully surviving all, A friendless thing, whose lot is cast Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, And oh! not wholly lost the heart 225 THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE'S. "All good and guiltless as thou art, Some transient griefs will touch thy heart Griefs that along thy alter'd face Will breathe a more subduing grace, Than even those looks of joy that lie WILSON. HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat: |