Hie on to great Ocean! hie on ! hie on !
Fleet as water can gallop, hie on !
Hear ye not through the ground
How the sea-trumpets sound

Round the sea-monarch's shallop, hie on !

Hie on to brave Ocean! hie on hie on !
From the sleek mountain levels, hie on !
Hear ye not in the boom

Of the water-bell's womb

Pleasant whoop to sea-revels, hie on !

High on to bright Ocean! hie on ! hie on ! "Tis the store of rich waters, hie on ! Hear ye not the rough sands

Rolling gold on the strands,

For poor Earth's sons and daughters, hie on !

Hie on to calm Ocean! hie on hie on !
Summer rest from earth-riot, hie on !

Hear ye not the smooth tide

With deep murmur and wide

Call ye down to his quiet, hie on !

Thus to the babbling streamlet elves

To haste them down the slopes and shelves,
Methought some Naiad of their fall
In her bright dropping sparry hall,
Sang to her glassy virginal.

"Perchance to me monition sweet ?"
I started upright to my feet
Attent: 'twas but a fancy dream!
I only heard in measure meet
The pulses of the fountain beat,
As onward prest the throbbing stream.
Fair fell no less my fancy dream!

I have been still led like a child

My heedless wayward path and wild Through this rough world by feebler clues (So they were bright) than rainbows' dews

Spun by the insect gossamer

To climb with through the ropy air.

Fair fall ye, then, my fairy dream!
I'll with this labyrinthian stream,
Where'er it flow, where'er it cease,
There be my pathway and my peace!
Swift as a star falls through the night,
Swift as a sunshot dart of light

Down from the hill's heaven-touching height
The streamlet vanished from my sight.

The poet is carried away by the phoenix, and laid at the bottom of her tree, in Arabia Felix, where he beholds her dissolution.

VOL. II.

O blest unfabled Incense Tree
That burns in glorious Araby,
With red scent chalicing the air.
Till earth-life grow Elysian there!
Half buried to her flaming breast

In this bright tree she makes her nest,
Hundred-sunned Phoenix! where she must

Crumble at length to hoary dust!

Her gorgeous death-bed! her rich pyre
Burnt up with aromatic fire!

Her urn sight high from spoiler men !
Her birth-place when self-born again!
The mountainless green wilds among
Here ends she her unechoing song!
With amber tears and odorous sighs
Mourned by the desert where she dies!
Laid like the young fawn mossily

In sungreen vales of Araby

I woke, hard by the Phoenix tree

That with shadeless boughs flamed over me;

And upward called by a dumbery

With moon broad orbs of wonder, I
Beheld the immortal bird on high
Glassing the great sun in her eye ;
Steadfast she gazed upon his fire
Still her destroyer and her sire.

U

As if to his her soul of flame
Had flown already whence it came;
Like those who sit and glare so still
Intense with their death-struggle till
We touch and curdle at their chill!
But breathing yet while she doth burn
The deathless Daughter of the Sun!
Slowly to crimson embers turn
The beauties of the brightsome one.
O'er the broad nest her silver wings
Shook down their wasteful glitterings;
Her brindled neck high arched in air
Like a small rainbow faded there.
But brighter glowed her plumy crown
Mouldering to golden ashes down;
With fume of sweet woods to the skies,
Pure as a saint's adoring sighs,
Warm as a prayer in Paradise,

Her life-breath rose in sacrifice! '
The while with shrill triumphant tone

Sounding aloud, aloft, alone,

Ceaseless her joyful death-wail she

Sang to departing Araby!

Deep melancholy wonder drew

Tears from my heart-spring at that view;

Like cresset shedding its last flare

Upon some wistful mariner,

The bird fast blending with the sky
Turned on me her dead-gazing eye
Once-and as surge to shallow spray
Sank down to vapoury dust away.

O fast her amber blood doth flow
From the heart-wounded Incense Tree,
Fast as earth's deep embosomed woe
In silent rivulets to the sea!

Beauty may weep her fair first-born
Perchance in as replendent tears,
Such golden dew-drops bow the corn
When the stern sickleman appears.

But oh! such perfume to a bower
Never allured sweet-seeking bee
As to sip fast that nectarous shower
A thirstier minstrel drew in me.

Mr. Darley's death was even more lonely than his life. The kind and admirable persons who had been his best and truest friends in London, wrote to his brother in Dublin as soon as the imminent danger of his last illness was known. No answer arrived. He died; and they wrote again still more pressingly, and then, after a delay which rendered his interment inevitable, it was discovered that the brother in Ireland lay dead also.

The story of Mr. Barnard is very different. Eminent for scholarship, rich in friends, easy in circumstances, secure of preferment in the sacred profession to which he was an honour, and married to the lovely woman whom he so truly loved, it is probable that the very felicity of his lot prevented him from devoting himself to literary pursuits. Excepting the light and pleasant task of translating the Latin poems of Flaminio and the composition of such short lyrics as were suggested by the events or the feelings of the hour, he never went beyond the plans and projects with which most men of talent amuse their leisure. Even such verse as he did write remained in manuscript until it was collected and printed after his death by his accomplished father-in-law, Mr. Archdeacon Wrangham.

Few as they are, these lyrics are remarkable, not only for grace and beauty, but for a vigour of thought, a fulness, a body, very unusual in occasional verses. Had longer life been lent to Mr.

Barnard, we might have boasted another writer of high and pure poetry.

MY GREYHOUNDS.

Oh dear is the naked wold to me
Where I move alone in my majesty !
Thyme and cistus kiss my feet
And spread around their incense sweet,
The laverock springing from his bed,
Pours royal greeting o'er my head ;
My gallant guards, my greyhounds tried
March in order by my side;

And everything that's earthly born
Wealth and pomp, and pride I scorn-
And chiefly thee,

Who lift'st so high thy little horn.
Philosophy.

Wilt thou say that life is short;
That wisdom loves not hunter's sport
But virtue's golden fruitage rather
Hopes in cloistered cell to gather?
Gallant greyhounds tell her, here
Trusty faith and love sincere,
Here do grace and zeal abide,
And humbly keep their master's side.
Bid her send whate'er hath sold
Human hearts-lust, power and gold-
Accursed train!

And blush to find that on the wold
They bribe in vain.

Then let her preach! The Muse and I
Will turn to Goshawk, Gaze and Guy ;
And give to worth its proper place
Though found in nature's lowliest race.
And when we would be great or wise,
Lo! o'er our heads are smiling skies;
And thence we'll draw instruction true
That worldly science never knew,