Oh! who with Shakspeare could regardless tread- Dispensing beauties, as their garlands shed Rich with the breath of morn and spring's celestial dews. V. And He! who built his temple in the clouds That blindness follow'd that unbounded light, As clouds grow doubly dark where broods the lightning's might. VI. Thine are, O Mind!-the colours which delight The artist in his visionary mood!— Thou art the inspiration and the might— The deep enchantment of his solitude! What time nor breath, nor sounds of life intrude- VII. The mighty and immortal energies That crown'd the genius of young Angelo, That nature's wealthiest fountains could bestow; The tastes, the passions, sentiments, which show Like stars which burn and tremble as they shine,— VIII. Who may behold the works of Raphael's hand And feel no mountings of the soul within ; And the creations of the pencil win His thoughts towards heaven,-to which they are akin! Of holiest sweetness,-purifying sin— The majesty of truth, in tints surpassing words !— IX. Hues which are immortalities!—for age, That moulders the high hand which gave them birth, Consigns to dust the painter, poet, sage, Increases but their glory and their worth :— They are the gifts which dignify the earth!— Exalt humanity, refine, inspire; And lend a charm to grief-a grace to mirth!— That wake the finest echoes of the lyre And stir the kindling heart with Hope's Promethean fire. X. What, though pale penury may haunt the spot Correggio lives while princes are forgot The canvass speaks when kingdoms lose their name. Where lie the great whose gold was all their fame? Yet there be names that years may not consume, XI. West, Reynolds, Wilson, Lawrence-these are names, High denizens of immortality, Enduring pillars of their native shore,— A rich bequeathment, and beloved the more, XII. 'Tis not alone the poesy of form- Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull; Affections, years may dim-but never quite annul !— XIII. Wresting from death and darkness, undecay'd, The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier Convey'd to our young souls how great a blow Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear;Oh, heart!-too early wert thou doom'd to know The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below! XIV. Then, ah!--for ever sacred be the Art Which gave me all the grave had left of mine! Direct from heaven, and not from human skill :— The eyes some new expression seems to fill And half I know thee dead-half hope thee living still! THE COTTAGE DOOR. (From Swain's English Melodies.) THE starry silence falls Along my sylvan way, We never meet by day; Of years that are no more, The quiet taper burns, And makes thy casement bright, And soft thy shadow falls Between me and the light; My heart would bend before; The night, as if to breathe, Her starry curtain parts; The very air seems faint With breath of lovers' hearts: Some spirit robes the earth In light that heaven wore ; Or is that light thine own; W TO THE LARK. (From Swain's English Melodies.) WHEREFORE is thy song so gay? Wherefore is thy flight so free? Singing-soaring-day by day; Thou'rt a bird of low degree! Tirral-la! Scarcely shelter'd from the mould, We thy humble nest can see; |