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DEDICATION OF THE DREAM,

TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.

ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,
A soothing dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough,
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!
And unto thee-the beautiful and pure-

Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure,

And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd; To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard,

In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd,

Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbour'd long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise!

For easy are the alms the rich man spares

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent, But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief-in spite of many a cold dissentWhen, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart, From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart.

Then, then, when cowards lied away my name, And scoff'd to see me feebly stem the tide; When some were kind on whom I had no claim, And some forsook on whom my love relied, And some, who might have battled for my sake, Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world" would take

Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears; The loved, the near of kin could do no more,

Who changed not with the gloom of varying But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, [years, And blunted slander's dart with their indignant

scorn.

For they who credit crime are they who feel

Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Mem'ry, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal

O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But, like a white swan down a troubled stream, Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide; Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made

To crimson with a faint, false-hearted shame; Thou didst not shrink, of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame;

To thee the sad denial still held true,
For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its
mercy drew.

And, though my faint and tributary rhymes
Add nothing to the glory of thy day,
Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay,
And I would fain one gentle deed record
Among the many such with which thy life is stored.
So, when these lines, made in a mournful hour,
Are idly open'd to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;
And they who never saw thy lovely face,
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

EXTRACT FROM THE DREAM. Он, Twilight! Spirit that does render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, Marks the small spark his cottage window throws; Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, And those poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride, Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside; But him they wait for, him they welcome home, Fond sentinels look forth to see him come; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared are all for him; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him-who plods his sauntering way along, Whistling the fragment of some village song!

TO MY BOOKS.

SILENT companions of the lonely hour,

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power,

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,Let me return to you; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought; And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought,
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
"Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime

My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings told so well.

TWILIGHT.

Ir is the twilight hour,

The daylight toil is done, And the last rays are departing Of the cold and wintry sun. It is the time when friendship

Holds converse fair and free. It is the time when children

Dance round the mother's knee. But my soul is faint and heavy, With a yearning sad and deep, By the fireside lone and dreary I sit me down and weep! Where are ye, merry voices, Whose clear and bird-like tone, Some other ear now blesses,

Less anxious than my own? Where are ye, steps of lightness,

Which fell like blossom-showers? Where are ye, sounds of laughter,

That cheer'd the pleasant hours? Through the dim light slow declining, Where my wistful glances fall, I can see your pictures hanging Against the silent wall;They gleam athwart the darkness,

With their sweet and changeless eyes, But mute are ye, my children!

No voice to mine replies.
Where are ye? Are ye playing
By the stranger's blazing hearth;
Forgetting, in your gladness,

Your old home's former mirth?
Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?
Are ye full of childish glee?
Or do your light hearts sadden

With the memory of me?
Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,
Do your young arms fondly twine,
Does she press you to her bosom
Who hath taken you from mine?
Oh! boys, the twilight hour

Such a heavy time hath grown,-
It recalls with such deep anguish
All I used to call my own,-
That the harshest word that ever
Was spoken to me there,

Would be trivial-would be welcome-
In this depth of my despair!
Yet no! Despair shall sink not,
While life and love remain,-
Though the weary struggle haunt me,
And my prayer be made in vain :
Though at times my spirit fail me,
And the bitter tear-drops fall,
Though my lot be hard and lonely,
Yet I hope I hope through all!
When the mournful Jewish mother
Laid her infant down to rest,
In doubt, and fear, and sorrow,

On the water's changeful breast;
She knew not what the future
Should bring the sorely tried:

That the high priest of her nation Was the babe she sought to hide. No! in terror wildly flying,

She hurried on her path: Her swoln heart full to bursting Of woman's helpless wrath; Of that wrath so blent with anguish, When we seek to shield from ill Those feeble little creatures

Who seem more helpless still! Ah! no doubt in such an hour

Her thoughts were harsh and wild; The fiercer burn'd her spirit

The more she loved her child; No doubt, a frenzied anger

Was mingled with her fear, When that prayer arose for justice Which God hath sworn to hear. He heard it! From His heaven, In its blue and boundless scope, He saw that task of anguish,

And that fragile ark of hope; When she turn'd from that lost infant Her weeping eyes of love, And the cold reeds bent beneath itHis angels watch'd above! She was spared the bitter sorrow

Of her young child's early death, Or the doubt where he was carried To draw his distant breath; She was call'd his life to nourish From the well-springs of her heart, God's mercy re-uniting

Those whom man had forced apart!

Nor was thy wo forgotten,

Whose worn and weary feet
Were driven from thy homestead,
Through the red sand's parching heat;
Poor Hagar! scorn'd and banish'd,
That another's son might be
Sole claimant on that father,

Who felt no more for thee.
Ah! when thy dark eye wander'd,
Forlorn Egyptian slave!
Across that lurid desert,

And saw no fountain wave,-
When thy southern heart, despairing,
In the passion of its grief,
Foresaw no ray of comfort,

No shadow of relief;

But to cast the young child from thee,
That thou might'st not see him die,
How sank thy broken spirit-

But the Lord of Hosts was nigh!
He (He, too oft forgotten,
In sorrow as in joy)
Had will'd they should not perish—
The outcast and her boy:
The cool breeze swept across them
From the angel's waving wing,-
The fresh tide gush'd in brightness

From the fountain's living spring,-
And they stood-those two-forsaken
By all earthly love or aid,

Upheld by God's firm promise,

Serene and undismay'd! And thou, Nain's grieving widow!

Whose task of life seem'd done, When the pale corse lay before thee Of thy dear and only son; Though death, that fearful shadow, Had veil'd his fair young eyes, There was mercy for thy weeping, There was pity for thy sighs! The gentle voice of Jesus,

(Who the touch of sorrow knew) The grave's cold claim arrested

E'er it hid him from thy view; And those loving orbs re-open'd

And knew thy mournful face,And the stiff limbs warm'd and bent them

With all life's moving grace,— And his senses dawn'd and waken'd From the dark and frozen spell, Which death had cast around him Whom thou didst love so well; Till, like one return'd from exile

To his former home of rest,
Who speaks not while his mother

Falls sobbing on his breast;
But with strange bewilder'd glances
Looks round on objects near,
To recognise and welcome

All that memory held dear,-
Thy young son stood before thee
All living and restored,
And they who saw the wonder
Knelt down to praise the Lord!

The twilight hour is over!

In busier homes than mine,
I can see the shadows crossing
Athwart the taper's shine;
I hear the roll of chariots

And the tread of homeward feet,
And the lamps' long rows of splendour
Gleam through the misty street.

No more I mark the objects

In my cold and cheerless room;
The fire's unheeded embers

Have sunk-and all is gloom;
But I know where hang your pictures
Against the silent wall,

And my eyes turn sadly towards them,
Though I hope-I hope through all.
By the summons to that mother,

Whose fondness fate beguiled,
When the tyrant's gentle daughter

Saved her river-floating child;By the sudden joy which bounded

In the banish'd Hagar's heart, When she saw the gushing fountain From the sandy desert start;By the living smile which greeted The lonely one of Nain, When her long last watch was over, And her hope seem'd wild and vain ;—

By all the tender mercy

God hath shown to human grief,

When fate or man's perverseness
Denied and barr'd relief,—
By the helpless wo which taught me
To look to Him alone,
From the vain appeals for justice

And wild efforts of my own,-
By thy light-thou unseen future,
And thy tears-thou bitter past,
I will hope-though all forsake me-
In His mercy to the last!

THE BLIND MAN TO HIS BRIDE. WHEN first, beloved, in vanish'd hours

The blind man sought thy love to gain, They said thy cheek was bright as flowers New freshen'd by the summer rain: They said thy movements, swift yet soft, Were such as make the winged dove Seem, as it gently soars aloft,

The image of repose and love.

They told me, too, an eager crowd

Of wooers praised thy beauty rare;
But that thy heart was all too proud

A common love to meet or share.
Ah! thine was neither pride nor scorn,
But in thy coy and virgin breast
Dwelt preference, not of passion born,
The love that hath a holier zest!

Days came and went ;-thy step I heard
Pause frequent, as it pass'd me by :-
Days came and went ;-thy heart was stirr'd,
And answer'd to my stifled sigh!
And thou didst make an humble choice,
Content to be the blind man's bride,
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice,
And own'd no joy on earth beside.

And well by that sweet voice I knew

(Without the happiness of sight) Thy years, as yet, were glad and few,

Thy smile, most innocently bright: I knew how full of love's own grace The beauty of thy form must be; And fancy idolized the face

Whose loveliness I might not see! Oh! happy were those days, beloved! I almost ceased for light to pine When through the summer vales we roved, Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. Thy soft "Good night" still sweetly cheer'd The unbroken darkness of my doom; And thy "Good morrow, love," endear'd Each sunrise that return'd in gloom!

At length, as years roll'd swiftly on,

They spoke to me of Time's decayOf roses from thy smooth cheek gone, And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray. Ah! then I bless'd the sightless eyes Which could not feel the deepening shade,

Nor watch beneath succeeding skies

Thy withering beauty faintly fade.

I saw no paleness on thy cheek,

No lines upon thy forehead smooth,But still the blind man heard thee speak In accents made to bless and soothe. Still he could feel thy guiding hand

As through the woodlands wild we ranged,Still in the summer light could stand,

And know thy heart and voice unchanged.

And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath a genial sky,
And only know that we are old

By counting happy years gone by:
For thou to me art still as fair

As when those happy years began,— When first thou camest to sooth and share The sorrows of a sightless man!

Old Time, who changes all below,

To wean men gently for the grave, Hath brought us no increase of wo,

And leaves us all he ever gave: For I am still a helpless thing,

Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by theeAnd thou art she whose beauty's spring

The blind man vainly yearn'd to see!

THE SENSE OF BEAUTY.

SPIRIT! who over this our mortal earth,
Where naught hath birth

Which imperfection doth not some way dim
Since earth offended Him-

Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things;

And, wandering to and fro,

Through the condemn'd and sinful world dost go,
Haunting that wilderness, the human heart,
With gleams of glory that too soon depart,
Gilding both weed and flower;-
[power?
What is thy birth divine? and whence thy mighty

The sculptor owns thee! On his high pale brow
Bewildering images are pressing now;
Groups whose immortal grace

His chisel ne'er shall trace,

Though in his mind the fresh creation glows;
High forms of godlike strength,
Or limbs whose languid length

The marble fixes in a sweet repose!
At thy command,

His true and patient hand

Moulds the dull clay to beauty's richest line,

Or with more tedious skill,

Obedient to thy will,

By touches imperceptible and fine,
Works slowly day by day

The rough-hewn block away,

Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous toil!

Thee the young painter knows,-whose fervent

eyes,

O'er the blank waste of canvass fondly bending,

See fast within its magic circle rise
Some pictured scene, with colours softly blending,-
Green bowers and leafy glades,

The old Arcadian shades,

Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one Appear to bless his sight

In fancy's glowing light,

Peopling that spot of green earth's flowery breast
With every attitude of joy and rest.

Lo! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth
(Like an uprising star in the cold north)
Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire:
Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around,
Dim and uncertain as an echo'd sound, [inspire!
But oh! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost

Thee, also, doth the dreaming poet hail,
Fond comforter of many a weary day—
When through the clouds his fancy's ear can sail
To worlds of radiance far, how far, away!
At thy clear touch, (as at the burst of light
Which morning shoots along the purple hills,
Chasing the shadows of the vanish'd night,
And silvering all the darkly gushing rills,
Giving each waking blossom, gemm'd with dew,
Its bright and proper hue,)—

He suddenly beholds the checker'd face
Of this old world in its young Eden grace!
Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not-
Nor homely and familiar things:-man's lot
Is like aspirations-bright and high;
And even in the haunting thought that man must
His dream so changes from its fearful strife,
Death seems but fainting into purer life!

Nor only these thy presence woo,
The less inspired own thee too!
Thou hast thy tranquil source

In the deep well-springs of the human heart,
And gushest with sweet force

When most imprison'd; causing tears to start
In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye,
As, with a sigh,

[die,

At the bright close of some rare holiday,
He sees the branches wave, the waters play-
And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime
Warn him a busier world reclaims his time!
Thee, childhood's heart confesses,-when he sees
The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze,
When the red coral wins his eager gaze,

Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays,
Thee, through his varied hours of rapid joy,
The eager boy,-

Who wild across the grassy meadow springs,
And still with sparkling eyes

Pursues the uncertain prize,

Lured by the velvet glory of its wings!

And so from youth to age-yea, till the end—
An unforsaking, unforgetting friend,

Thou hoverest round us! And when all is o'er,
And earth's most loved illusions please no more,
Thou stealest gently to the couch of death;
There, while the lagging breath

Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh Consoling visions from thy native sky, Making it sweet to die!

The sick man's ears are faint-his eyes are dim-
But his heart listens to the heavenward hymn,
And his soul sees-in lieu of that sad band,
Who come with mournful tread

To kneel about his bed,

God's white-robed angels, who around him stand,
And waive his spirit to "the Better Land!"

So, living, dying,-still our hearts pursue
That loveliness which never met our view;
Still to the last the ruling thought will reign,
Nor deem one feeling given-was given in vain!
For it may be, our banish'd souls recall
In this, their earthly thrall,

(With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world Whence angels once were hurl'd;

Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense,
Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence,
Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed,
When the imperfect shall be perfected!
Like the chain'd eagle in his fetter'd might,
Straining upon the heavens his wistful sight,
Who toward the upward glory fondly springs,
With all the vain strength of his shivering wings,-
So chain'd to earth, and baffled-yet so fond
Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond,
We make the attempt to soar in many a thought
Of beauty born, and into beauty wrought;
Dimly we struggle onwards :-who shall say
Which glimmering light leads nearest to the day?

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,

And natural piety that lean'd to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly givenObedient-easy to be reconciledAnd meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left; still by my side [dying;— Haunting my walks, while summer-day was Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! Then THOU, my merry love;-bold in thy glee, Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,

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And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;
The coaxing smile;-the frequent soft caress;—
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming!
Again my heart a new affection found,

[bound. But thought that love with thee had reach'd its At length THOU camest: thou, the last and least; Nick-named The Emperor" by thy laughing

brothers,

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Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile:

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming! Fair shoulders-curling lip-and dauntless browFit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming: And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either, by this love's comparing; Nor stole a fraction for the newer callBut in the mother's heart, found room for all!

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day, Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

"I am content to die, but, oh! not now! Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.

I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow!

The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time,

The season's viewless boundary is past; The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime; Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last? "Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, With silent steps the lord of light moves on; Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow; I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"

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