Oh, that the silence around thee now
Could my burning thoughts reveal!
Breathe into life, and intensely glow
With all I vainly feel!

Oh, that the struggling soul could break
The barriers around it thrown ;

And to those it visits, in thought could make
Its power and presence known.

With a shadow of things that may not be,
Let sleep my bosom thrill—

Good night to all the world but thee,
In dreams thou art with me still.

TO M

Oн, ask me not how long thy gentle love
Hath dwelt on me ;

I only know 'tis long enough to prove
Thy constancy.

I cannot pause to number months, or days,
I know alone,

If to be faithful be Love's highest praise,
Thou wear'st the crown.

Oh, thou hast loved me long enough to shew
Thou canst not range;

And long enough to bid experience know
How others change.

Oh, long enough for the upbraiding thought,
That ne'er till now,

I prized thy love's rich treasure, as I ought,
My all below.

Yes, I have seen full many a dream depart
With faithless speed;

And some, who should have gently used my heart,
Have made it bleed.

And I have rued Affection's broken vow,

And felt the chill

Of Friendship's alter'd eye-but, dearest, thou

Art faithful still.

Two Sonnets, by Hamilton Murray :

SONNET TO ELINORE.

I CAME a pilgrim to thy pleasant land,
And was a stranger in thy father's hall;
And sounds were there of feast and festival;
But dearer far to me the greeting hand,
And smile of welcome, to your mirthful band:
And when I ponder'd what might me befal,
That my fond dreams perchance were madness all,
And I no more might in your circle stand,
No more for me those smiles of kindness play;
There seem'd but sorrow in the voice of mirth,
And tears half started as I turned away:

But tears from sweet or bitter springs have birth :
And now I weep for gladness, to behold

Smiles of the heart, which never will grow cold.

FORGIVE me, if my melancholy lay

Seem little suited to thine hour of mirth.

To me, the light that beam'd upon thy birth

Is holier than the light of common day;

And with more solemn earnestness I pray,

That when thou feel'st, as thou hast felt, the dearth
Of all this weary wilderness of earth,

Still Hope may cheer thy unrepining way;
And smiling show beyond the desert sand
The distant verdure of a happier land.
A few more years of mingled smiles and sighs
A few more drops to earthly sorrow given;
And thou beyond this vale of grief wilt rise,
And be an angel in a tearless heaven.

Sept. 19.

;

The Harp of Denmark, by Edward Hazelfoot (not warranted modern):

TO THE HARP OF DENMARK,

HARP of Denmark, farewell! in thy pine-grove reclining,
I found thee, swept o'er by the north-wind alone;
And thy chords, as they sigh'd, seem'd in wonder repining,
That an accent so sweet had been murmur'd to none:

Till I ṣeiz'd thee, and spread the rich charm of thy strains
To hearts that can burn, and to souls that can feel;
And Britain heard soft, through her wond'ring plains,
The voice of her mother* in melody steal.

They had heard of thy notes in the ages of yore,

When the Scald and the Warrior swept o'er thy string,
When the bands of the Raven yell'd wild o'er the shore,
And Death flew around them on wavering wing:
But they knew not thy sweeter, thy loftier tone,

That sung of fair Denmark all kingdoms above;
And the hope of the brave by no tempests o'erthrown,
And true-hearted friendship, and soul-thrilling love.

Harp of Denmark, farewell! but if happier men
Awake thee again from thy shadowy pine,
(And who that has heard would not hear thee again,
Though sway'd by a touch e'en more feeble than mine!)

Forget not the hand that awaken'd thee first,

To pour thy soft notes on the gales of his birth,
And bade, from thy golden strings, joyously burst
The song of affection, of glory, and worth!
June, 1815.

A first attempt, by a Lady:

DAWN IN LONDON.

THE morn approaches-darkness wanes away-
The heavy clouds, their dim and sombrous forms
Move slowly on-In vain I seek the charms
Of breaking day-no mead with flow'rets gay,
Or pearly dew-drop glitt'ring on the spray;
No simple rustic cot, or cultured farms,

Or field with waving grain, my fancy warms:
Nor little warbler welcomes in the day

With cheerful matin song-the twilight hour

Dawns here on cumbrous street with chimney'd top,

And misty river's broad expanse, and tow'r,

Raising its giant form that seems to prop

The labouring sky-and all is silent, save

The quick plash of the rower, who skims, half-seen, the wave.

* So called in a Poem of Ochlensehlæger.

M. H.

Another fair morceau, by Gerard :

TO A LADY.

In heaven "are many mansions"—what if thou,
Free as thou art from speck or taint of sin,
By paths untrod by me, shouldst chance to win
Some separate Paradise?-The hope which now
Soothes my bruis'd heart, and calms my sleepless brow,
Oh! must it perish ?-when the stormy din

Of life is o'er, shall we not meet within

The halls of heaven, as once my soul did vow?
Oh! not for centuries of happy years

Would I endure that thought!-'twere hell to know,
Beloved Friend, that all our hopes and fears,
Yearnings, and dreams of future joy and woe,
Hung upon different creeds!—With fervent tears,
I'll kneel, and pray that it may not be so!
More Sonnets from Davenant Cecil :-

I. TO A. M.

Now, Lady, rest thee in this quiet nook,
And we will give our souls to Poesy,
Nature is all in all to such as thee,
And natural Wisdom, which hath not forsook
His early haunts; nor in the running brook,
May we not spell of many a mystery,
Of Life and Death and of Eternity,

Quietly reading with a pensive look.

My stream is near its source; yet, e'er the Deep

Receive it, 'twill, I trust, prove medicinal;

For even now its happy waters sleep

Beneath a myrrh-tree, which dost o'er them weep
Heavenliest balms, impregning them with all,

Giving them virtues strange, of power in sickness' thrall.

1819.

II.

And so men say, I love thee! hence thy eye
Meets mine so coldly, and thy little hand-

Drops from my timid grasp so passively;

Hence that unlook'd-for air of meek command,
With which thou check'st my ill-dissembled sigh,
As if e'en I forgot the sacred band

Thou wear'st so well, and would not rather die

Of grief, heart-broken, in some distant land.

1821.

It is most true I love thee,-love thee more

Than aught on this green earth-'tis a sad truth;
And I shall lose the best years of my youth
In a fond sorrow, with no better lore
Sought or acquired than the poor minstrelsy
With which I sing to sleep my restless love for thee!

1821.

III.

There was a time when every wilder thought
Or gently-trembling movement of my breast
Sorrow, or joy, or hid love's sweet unrest,
Its own true note, its proper music, brought
From the far realms of Poesy-unsought,

Almost unwished for-and my eye confest
Unearthly shapes in robes of Faery drest,
Speaking a language by no mortal taught.
'Tis gone 'tis gone-and inwardly I bleed-
My wing of thought is clipt, my spirit quench'd.
Time, and the world—and care, and hopeless need,
And the unloveliness I see, have blench'd

All that was bright within me,-fitting meed,
I water'd not the flower-I did not pluck the weed.

IV.

my

Oh! not in madness shall I see thee now;
I shall not melt beneath thine eyes' soft ray;
Thy sweet tones will not steal
soul away
To chain it to thy lips. Thy saintly brow
Methinks high Truth and Innocence endow

With a bright glory that hath power to sway
E'en the least pure, and draw them to obey
The heavenly Love,—and at her altar bow.
Time too hath done its work; and in my veins

No fever burns-yet think not love hath past
Quite from my heart; still, Lady, still remains
A holy love, -a joy-and some sweet pains-
vague faint hope-or else the heart were waste ;
And true it is that mine is wasting fast!

A