No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,

Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn ;
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see,

And mask thee with laughter, and say, thou art free!

No! thou art chained till thy race is run,

By the

power

of all in the soul of one;

On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be—

Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?

THE ANGLER.

I in these flowery meads would be:
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise

I with my angle would rejoice;

And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

ISAAC WALTON.

THOU that hast loved so long and well

The vale's deep quiet streams,

Where the pure water-lilies dwell,

Shedding forth tender gleams;

And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.

P

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,

Soft, soft the river flows,

Wearing the shadow of thy line,

The gloom of alder-boughs;

And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard—

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,

The scythe upon the mead;

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag that comes to lave, At noon, his panting breast;

'Tis not the bittern, by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is filled with summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis Death!

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,

Hath learned to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;

If holy thoughts thy guests have been, Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour

By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, To cheer thee through the last;

And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,

Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell.

DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

We colour Heaven with our own human thoughts,

Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances;

Our passionate love, that seems unto itself

An Immortality.

DREAM'ST thou of Heaven ?-what dreams are

thine?

Fair child, fair gladsome child?

With eyes that like the dew-drop shine,

And bounding footsteps wild!

Tell me what hues the immortal shore

Can wear, my Bird! to thee?

Ere yet one shadow hath pass'd o'er

Thy glance and spirit free?