ROBERT SOUTHEY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY was born at Bristol, in the year 1774, and was educated at Baliol College, Oxford. Soon after leaving college he visited Spain and Portugal, and published an account of what he had seen, on his return. He has since produced a considerable number of works, both poetry and prose, which have been well received, and which shew him to be an elegant writer, of high moral feeling. He at present holds the situation of poet laureate, which post he has enjoyed for nearly thirty years.

LOVE.

THEY sin who tell us love can die;
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell:

Earthly these passions, as of earth,

They perish where they have their birth.
But love is indestructible;

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ;

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times oppressed,

It here is tried and purified,

And hath in heaven its perfect rest :
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe, the lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

The day of woe, the anxious night,

For all her sorrow, all her tears,

An over-payment of delight?

AFFLICTION.

METHINKS if ye would know

How visitations of calamity

Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you here.

Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky Sailing along, doth cross in her career

The rolling moon. I watched it as it came,

And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams,
But melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own;
Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.

REMEMBRANCE.

MAN hath a weary pilgrimage,

As through the world he wends;
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends;

With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,

And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms:

What then shall soothe his earliest woes?
What novelty hath lost its charms?

Condemned to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lightens, as she counts the hours
That hasten his return.

From hard control and tyrant rules,

The unfeeling discipline of schools,

The child's sad thoughts will roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers, with a sigh,

The comforts of his home.

Youth comes: the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind;

Where shall the tired and harassed heart
Its consolation find?

Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?

Ah! no for hopes too long delayed,
And feelings blasted or betrayed,
The fabled bliss destroy;
And he remembers, with a sigh,
The careless days of infancy.

Maturer Manhood now arrives,

And other thoughts come on;

But, with the baseless hopes of Youth,
Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold, calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering, with an envious sigh,
The happy dreams of Youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our Mortal Pilgrimage,
With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old Experience learns too late,
That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by,

Its idle hopes are o'er;

Yet Age remembers, with a sigh,

The days that are no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Is a true poet, to whom public opinion now renders tardy justice. He received his education at St. John's College, Cambridge, and after a tour on the Continent, settled in the Lake country in the North, to the picturesque features of which allusions are very frequent in his works.

Wordsworth's poems are mostly written in a style of great simplicity, but they everywhere present their author in his true light, as an amiable man and a sincere Christian.

TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR.

NOT seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn;

Not seldom evening in the west

Sinks smilingly forsworn.

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
To the confiding bark, untrue;

And if she trust the stars above,

They can be treacherous too.

The umbrageous oak in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.

But Thou art true, incarnate Lord!

Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ;

Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!

I bent before thy gracious throne,

And asked for peace with suppliant knee;

And peace was given,-nor peace alone,
But faith, and hope, and ecstasy!

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN.

Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn;
And He accepts the punctual hymn,
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will He turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide;
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour

Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, That, drawn from this our hour of rest, Are with a ready heart bestowed

Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot?

An altar is in each man's cot,

A church in every grove that spreads

Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to heaven! the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run:

He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the east, If we have faltered or transgressed, Guide from thy love's abundant source What yet remains of this day's course.

Help with thy grace through life's short day,

Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.