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Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years

Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn.
For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place;
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans,
And spirits; and delightedly believes
Divinities, being himself divine.
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,

power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or foreșt by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 65 Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanish’d: They live no longer in the faith of reason ! But still the heart doth need a language, still Doth the old instinct bring back the old names, And to yon starry world they now are gone,

70 Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth With man as with their friend; and to the lover Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky Shoot influence down: and even at this day ’T is Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, 75 And Venus who brings everything that 's fair !

Thekla. And if this be the science of the stars,
I too, with glad and zealous industry,
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.
It is a gentle and affectionate thought,

That in immeasurable heights above us,
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven,
With sparkling stars for flowers.





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“My birth-day”—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears !
And how each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears !
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links,

That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said—“were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done." Ah,'t is not thus the voice, that dwells

In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mock’d; of talents, made

Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid

Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire,

That cross'd my pathway, for his star.All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again, With

power to add, retouch, efface The light and shades, the joy and pain,





How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away,
All,—but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, 35

And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round ! 40


MEMORY. But is Her magic only felt below ? Say, through what brighter realms she bids it flow; To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere, She yields delight but faintly imaged here: All that till now their rapt researches knew, 5 Not call'd in slow succession to review; But, as a landscape meets the eye of day, At once presented to their glad survey!

Each scene of bliss reveal’d, since chaos fled, And dawning light its dazzling glories spread; 10 Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow'd, Since first Creation's choral anthem flow'd; Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divine, To distant worlds that undiscover'd shine; Full on her tablet flings its living rays,

15 And all, combined, with blest effulgence blaze.

There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar; No more to part, to mingle tears no more! And, as the softening hand of Time endears The joys and sorrows of our infant-years,


So there the soul, released from human strife,
Smiles at the little cares and ills of life;
Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers;
As at a dream that charm'd her vacant hours !

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend 25
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend;
To hover round his evening walk unseen,
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green;
To hail the spot where first their friendship grew,
And heaven and nature opend to their view! 30
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees
A smiling circle emulous to please ;
There may these gentle guests delight to dwell,
And bless the scene they loved in life so well !

O thoul with whom my heart was wont to share 35 From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know The humble walks of happiness below; If thy blest nature now unites above An angel's pity with a brother's love,

40 Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, Correct my views, and elevate my soul; Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Devout yet cheerful, active yet resign'd; Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, 45 Whose blameless wishes never aim'd to rise, To meet the changes Time and Chance present, With modest dignity and calm content. When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, Thy meek submission to thy God express'd ;

50 When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;

What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemish'd youth, 55
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!

Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine !
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! 60
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,

65 Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light;

70 And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!



THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noon-tide harmony.
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-ball the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

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