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Oh, not a joy or blessing
With this can we compare,
The power that He hath given us
To pour our souls in prayer.
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness,
Before His footstool fall;
Remember, in thy gladness,
His love who gave thee all.





PERCHANCE as here, beside the crystal flood,

In pleased repose the hero-despot stood,
Where art and nature emulously smile
With all their charms on each enchanted isle,
The scene's own soft contagion gently stole
O'er each stern purpose of his toil-worn soul;
Perchance e'en here he grieved awhile to mar
Such climes of beauty with the waste of war;
Wish'd that the tumult of his days might cease
In some bright vale, in some blest home of peace;
Sigh'd for the joys he ne'er was doom'd to gain;
Then rush'd to conquer on Marengo's plain.



FAREWELL, Bologna! Peace be on thy walls,
Thy long-drawn porticoes, thy marble halls!
I sing not, that thy broad and sunny plain
With plenty girds the Adriatic main;
That the pale olive and the purple vine
Love to ascend thy neighb'ring Apennine.
The muse for thee would fondly seek to raise
At Painting's sister-shrine one note of praise.

With art unerring, since to nature true,
The bold design here each Caracci drew;
Here great Domenichino caught the flame,
Equall'd, but not obscur'd, his master's fame;
Here on the canvass Guido learn'd to trace
The might of passion and the soul of grace;
With darker lineaments, and sterner shade,
Guercino's skill each manly form array'd;
While soft Albano from the Paphian grove
Stole every gentle form of infant love.



O THOU eternal Rome!-for to have been
Is still to be-the world's imperial Queen;
Who, but must feel thy tale of parted fame
O'er his full heart a wide dominion claim,
As when, on conquest's wing, thy eagle flew
Where'er the billows rolled, the breezes blew—
As when the Sun, beneath his fav`ring ray,
Saw not thy rival, beamed but on thy sway.

'Mid each dim vestige of thy sevenfold hill,
How fallen, but how lovely art thou still!
Home of the wise, the warlike, and the free,
E'en in thy ruin, what is like to Thee?

The Earth's wide circuit boasts no scene so bright

As the lone relics of thy vanished might.

Nor could the sons of all thy pomp and power
More fondly love thee, in thy loftiest hour;
Not 'mid the Lictor band's encircling state,
Not in the Forum's high and free debate,
Not in the mingling frenzy of the war,
Not in the rapture of the victor's car,
Than he, who dares to tune this feeble lay
In mournful homage of thy mightier day;

Who, wandering 'mid these scattered wrecks alone,
In thy dread destinies forgets his own;
Explores the broken arch, the crumbling fane,
The doubtful hill, the desolated plain;

Or, idly stoops to cull the flowers that wave,
Fair and inglorious, o'er a Cæsar's grave.



AND dost thou rest e'en here, thou mighty shade?
Can yon gray mound be so indeed divine?
Was all of thee that could remain here laid?

All-save thy deathless, save thy matchless line?

For none like thine, howe'er the creed be wrong, E'er o'er my soul held such transcendant sway; Not e'en blind Homer's universal song,

Not my own Shakspeare's wild and passion'd lay.

And, oh! the vision to my view unfurl'd,

That makes thy tomb be worthy e'en of thee! Earth, sea, and sky, the brightest of the world: Beneath me is my own Parthenope.

Still where the vine's young tendrils freshest creep,
Where all is lovely that is not sublime,
Honour'd thy grave, and peaceful be thy sleep,
Art's fav'rite son, 'mid nature's fairest clime.



My steps are turn'd to England-yet I sigh
To leave Ausonia's blue and balmy sky;
I fain would linger 'mid her hills and plains,
Their living beauties, or their bright remains;
Still tread each ruin's haunted round, and still
Explore the windings of each storied rill,
The cypress grove, the vineyard's trelliss'd shade,
The olive thicket, and the poplar glade.

My steps are turn'd to England-yet I grieve
That this should be my last Italian eve.
And ye eternal snows! whom now I hail
In twilight's rosy hues from Turin's vale,
Whom nature to the land a barrier gave,
Sublime to view, but impotent to save,

Thus the next sun shall o'er ye set,—but I
Must gaze upon it in a colder sky.

My steps are turn'd to England—and oh, shame
To son of her's who thrills not at that name!
Call'd by the inspiring sound, before my eyes
My home's loved scenes, my country's glories rise;
The free and mighty land that gave me birth,
Her moral beauty, and her public worth;
All that can make the patriot bosom swell-

Yet one more sigh-bright Italy, farewell!


LADY, I covet not that radiant heap,

With more than all the rainbow's colours warm;

The rich mosaic of embroid'ry keep,

The pencil'd landscape, and the painted form.

If round my senses thou would'st cast thy spell,
If o'er my coffers thy dominion prove,
Sell me the beauties that in Grantham dwell,†
Her mouth of softness, and her smile of love:

Sell me the smile on Fox's dimpling face,‡

The form she borrow'd from Titania's dance;
Stourton's mild lustre,|| Duncombe's tap'ring grace,§

York's full bright orb, and Howard's kindred glance :¶

This Bazaar realized upwards of £2000 for the York Infirmary.

+ Lady Grantham was afterwards Countess de Grey; she was the mother of the Countess Cowper and Lady M. Vyner.

Lady Charlotte Osborne, married Mr. Sackville Fox.

Catherine Howard, sister of Philip H. Howard, of Corby Castle, then wife (now widow) of the Hon. Philip Stourton, Holme Hall, York.

§ Lady Charlotte Duncombe.

¶ Mrs. York, of Beverley, and Mrs. Howard, wife of the present Dean of Litchfield, were sisters; their maiden name was Wright.

Sell me the loveliness, sedate and high,

Twin'd in the bridal wreath round Petre's head;*

The laughter-loving blue of Vernon's eye,

Herbert's young bloom,† and Milner's high-born_tread ‡

Such are the peerless charms that price defy,
Above the weight of silver and of gold;
For when thy winning voice would bid me buy,
I feel, alas! that I myself am sold.


REJOICE not, if the rosy smile
Of woman's love thy path beguile;
If mirth and music charm thy bower,
If pleasure wing each honied hour.
Rejoice if, in a world of pain,
Its sorrow may efface its stain.

Rejoice not, if the trump of fame
Ring to the echo of thy name;
If thronging crowds around thee press,
If monarchs live and nations bless.
Rejoice that on the Eternal Throne
The Saviour marks thee for His own.

Rejoice not, if the tuneful lay

Roll through thy lips its sounding way;

If thy hand wake to life and fire

The breathing and the burning lyre.

Rejoice if thy faint note of praise

Shall swell the strain that seraphs raise.

* Hon. Laura Maria Jermingham, daughter of Lord and Lady Stafford. On the death of her husband, the Hon. E. R. Petre, Mrs. Petre entered a convent, and is

now a nun.

+ Miss Louisa Herbert, daughter of the Hon. and Rev. William Herbert; the wife of Colonel Mundy.

Lady Milner.

is now

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