But, hush!—ye idly vain, avaunt awhile,
For Age upon the tender arm of Youth
Advances; child of Heaven! an holy eye

Surveys thee now, thus gently giving back

The love that o'er thy cradle watch'd, and led

Thy footsteps through the mead, and framed thy

heart

To feelings tender, and to fancies sweet.

The noon hath pass'd; and o'er the humming

streets

A wintry shroud of night is hung, while lamps
And window-gleams from far and near prevail;
But Pleasure owns no night of dark eclipse.
The Theatre,—the Rooms of royal space,
Where Melody and Beauty meet,-or Dance,
Where feet, far lighter than the snow-falls, move,

And shapes elastic as the breezes bound,—

Now court the homage of a festive hour,

And through the eye shoot magic to the soul.

Stranger! the glowing life of day is o'er;
The hum of multitudes, the mingled sounds
Of sorrow and of pleasure cease to roll
Along the bright and busy scenes of Bath;
And sleep sits dewy on a thousand lids :

A deep and tomb-like stillness awes the air
Of midnight; houses seem a mass of shade;
And, like gigantic temples in a dream,
The steeples point their darkness to the clouds.

O! ever since my life-pulse beat, and thought Hath wrestled with my soul, the midnight hour Hath been more eloquent than day to me; Though mute as buried mystery, the breath

Of nature lies, the stars look down, and speak
Home to the heart, a language how divine!

And now, farewell! perchance for aye, farewell! Queen of the west! from olden time renown'd: Few are thy smiles that with my future blend, Though ne'er hath kindly word, or look of love, Forgotten been; but, treasured in the heart, They still are felt; and if, in after years Haply again I view thy green-crown'd hills,

Thy time-worn abbey, thy religious towers,

And move a stranger through thy voiceless streets, And watch thy spirit-stars,-this farewell hour

On mem'ry's pensive wing will back return,

To waken thought; and, like a moonlight scene, The past be colour'd with romantic gleams.

Bath, Jan. 12, 1829.

STANZAS.

"The flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies;

What is this world's delight?"

THE hour is past, the pleasure o'er,

And dumb the harp and glee;

Young feet no longer trip the floor,

Alive with melody!

P

Those fairy brows, those forms of love,

That wake the poet's sigh,

Like shapes who leave their bowers above

To charm a human eye;

All, all are gone! the lights have fled

From yon deserted room;

Dim as a chamber of the dead,

And voiceless as the tomb!

And now I am alone again,
With feelings undefined;

A pilgrim in a world of pain,

An unpartaken mind.