"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds, Am now enforst a far unfitter task For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"

For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell, That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I, at Superst.i.tion's bell, To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.

Better to lie and dose, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest, One being awakening to religious awe?

Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?

Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray Chiming from village church its chearful sound, When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day, And all the rustic train are gathered round, Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.

Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day, The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow, As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way, The minster curfew's sullen roar I know; I pause and love its solemn toll to hear, As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.

Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!

What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?

Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven; And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone, And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.

The RACE of BANQUO.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Leave thy guilty sire to die.

O'er the heath the stripling fled, The wild storm howling round his head.

Fear mightier thro' the shades of night Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight; And still he heard his father cry Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly Leave thy guilty sire to die.

On every blast was heard the moan The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan; Loathly night-hags join the yell And see--the midnight rites of h.e.l.l.

Forms of magic! spare my life!

Shield me from the murderer's knife!

Before me dim in lurid light Float the phantoms of the night-- Behind I hear my Father cry, Fly, son of Banquo--Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race, Fearless tread the circled s.p.a.ce: Fearless Fleance venture near-- Sire of monarchs--spurn at fear.

Sisters with prophetic breath Pour we now the dirge of Death!

MUSINGS on a LANDSCAPE

of

GASPAR POUSSIN.

Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenes Beguile the lonely hour; I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of herded humankind Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes The untainted air, that with the lively hue Of health and happiness illumes the cheek Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul All eager follows on thy faery flights FANCY! best friend; whose blessed witcheries With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller O'er the long wearying desart of the world.

Nor dost thou FANCY with such magic mock My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced Lisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry.

Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me To such calm joys as Nature wise and good Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons; Her wretched sons who pine with want amid The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down Before the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and POWER, AUTHORS of EVIL. Oh it is most sweet To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart, Sick of reality. The little pile That tops the summit of that craggy hill Shall be my dwelling; craggy is the hill And steep, yet thro' yon hazels upward leads The easy path, along whose winding way Now close embowered I hear the unseen stream Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam Gleam thro' the thicket; and ascending on Now pause me to survey the goodly vale That opens on my vision. Half way up Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock To sit and sun me, and look down below And watch the goatherd down that high-bank'd path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff to drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, Hoa.r.s.e bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height.

Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.

Where the town-spires behind the castle towers Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade, Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, Part with white rocks resplendant in the sun, Should bound mine eyes; aye and my wishes too, For I would have no hope or fear beyond.

The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of G.o.d: nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it To HIM. Oh life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honorable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants! delightful Thoughts That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE, Ye leave her to reality awak'd, Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restor'd, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy thro' his dungeon bars.

Mary.

The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular.

MARY.

I.

Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs, She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

II.

No aid, no compa.s.sion the Maniac will seek, Cold and hunger awake not her care: Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek Has the deathy pale hue of despair.

III.

Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac has been; The Traveller remembers who journeyed this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay As Mary the Maid of the Inn.

IV.

Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

V.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say That she was too good for his wife.

VI.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.