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That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,

Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul's music, and its light,

In those blest days when life was new,

And hope was false, but love was true.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JULIA,

LORD BROUGHTON'S ELDEST DAUGHTER, 1849.

A

CCEPT, bright Spirit, reft in life's best bloom, This votive wreath to thy untimely tomb, Formed to adorn all scenes, and charm in all, The fire-side circle and the courtly hall;

Thy friends to gladden, and thy home to bless;
Fair form thou hadst, and grace, and graciousness;
A mind that sought, a tongue that spoke, the truth,
And thought matured beneath the smile of youth.
Dear, dear young friend, ingenuous, cordial heart!
And can it be that thou shouldst first depart?
That age should sorrow o'er thy youthful shrine?
It owns more near, more sacred griefs, than mine,
Yet, 'midst the many who thy loss deplore,

Few loved thee better, and few mourn thee more.

A WHITEBAIT DINNER AT LOVEGROVE'S, AT BLACKWALL, JULY, 1851.

ΚΩΜΟΣ ΙΧΘΥΟΦΑΓΟΣ.

Ημεδα μεν πρύταν ἦμαρ, ἐς τέλος καταδύντα,
Πως τις θερίνη, ότε μαίνετο Σείριος ἀστης,

Προς Μέλανος Τείχος, Ταμέσας αὐταῖοι τας ἔχθαις,
Ahaam 'Ahaciñum, rzacija; si cragicarros,
Δαινόμενοι λώστους ἁλος ἐχος καὶ ποταμοίς,
Πέρκας τις τρίγλας τε, καὶ ἐγχέλειας ταλαιάς τις

Καὶ λευκὸν δέλεας, ἐρατεινῆς δαιτὸς ἄγαλμα·
Τοῖς τ' ἐπὶ, ἔιδατα πολλὰ κρέων, πιάς τ' ἐλάφοιο,
*Ορτυγας είς τε τέλος, κρυστάλλους τ' ἀγλαοκάρπους·
*ίνοντές τ' οἶνον, Χαμπαίγνιοι ὁν φέρον ἀγροὶ,
Η 'Ρήνου σκόπελοι, ή νήσων δια Μάδειρα.
Ημος δ' ήέλιος κατέδυ, καὶ ἐπὶ κνέφας ήλθε,
Δὴ τόπε γ ̓ ἀνστάντες, ὅσοι ἀνστάμεναι δυνάμεσθα,
Σπείσαντές τε Μαράσχοινον Βρομίῳ τε καὶ ̔Ερμῇ,
Οἴκαδε ιέμενοι, μέγα ειςανεβήσαμεν ἄστυ,
Δίφροις ἀτμοφόροισι, σιδηρείη τε κελεύθῳ.

SEDEBAMUS quidem per totum diem, usque ad solem occidentem,
Tempestate utique aestiva, quum furebat Canicula stella,
Apud Nigrum Murum, Thamesæ ad ipsas ripas,
Edibus Nemoramantis, mensas qui bene instraverat,
Epulantes optimos maris pisces et flumenis,
Percusque, mullosque, atque anguillas, salarasque,
Et albam escam, jucundæ dapis summum decus:

His et insuper, fercula multa carnium et pinguedinem cervi,
Coturnices et in fine, glaciesque eximiis-frugibus-inclytas:
Bibentesque vinum, Champægnii quod tulerunt agri,
Vel Rheni scopuli, vel insularum divina, Madeira.
Quando autem sol occidit, et crepusculum advenit,
Tum denique pedibus-insistentes, quicumque pedibus-insistere
poteramus,

Libantesque Maraschoenum Baccho-Frementi et Mercurio,
Domum festinantes, magnam rediimus in urbem,
Curribus vaporiferis, ferreaque via.

FISH FEAST.

ALL day we sat, until the sun went down—

'Twas summer, and the Dog-star scorched the town--
At fam'd Blackwall, O Thames! upon thy shore,
Where Lovegrove's tables groan beneath their store;
We feasted full on every famous dish,

Dress'd many ways, of sea and river fish-
Perch, mullet, eels, and salmon, all were there,
And whitebait, daintiest of our fishy fare;
Then meat of many kinds, and venison last,
Quails, fruits, and ices, crowned the rich repast.

Thy fields, Champagne, supplied us with our wine,
Madeira's Island, and the rocks of Rhine.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF FOFTY-FOUR YEARS AGO.

The sun was set, and twilight veiled the land:
Then all stood up,-all who had strength to stand,
And pouring down, of Maraschino, fit
Libations to the gods of wine and wit,

In steam-wing'd chariots, and on iron roads,
Sought the great city, and our own abodes.

265

IN REMEMBRANCE OF FORTY-FOUR YEARS AGO.*

T

[Written in 1858.]

HE convolvulus twines round the stems of its bower,

And spreads its young blossoms to morning's first ray: But the noon has scarce past, when it folds up its flower, Which opens no more to the splendour of day.

So twine round the heart, in the light of life's morning,
Love's coils of green promise and bright purple bloom :
The noontide goes by, and the colours adorning,

Its unfulfilled dreamings, are wrapt up in gloom.

But press the fresh flower, while its charms are yet glowing,
Its colour and form through long years will remain :
And treasured in memory, thus love is still showing
The outlines of hope, which else blossomed in vain.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

[Date unknown.]

Y thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:

Με

For in the past alone I build

My castles in the air.

I dwell not now on what may be :

Night shadows o'er the scene:

But still my fancy wanders free

Through that which might have been.

* These lines were sent with some pressed convolvulus to Mrs. Jenkins.

Ο

MIDNIGHT.

[No date.]

H, clear are thy waters, thou beautiful stream!
And sweet is the sound of thy flowing;

And bright are thy banks in the silver moon beam,
While the zephyrs of midnight are blowing.
The hawthorn is blooming thy channel along,
And breezes are waving the willow,

And no sound of life but the nightingale's song
Floats o'er thy murmuring billow.

Oh, sweet scene of solitude! dearer to me
Than the city's fantastical splendour !

From the haunts of the crowd I have hasten'd to thee,
Nor sigh for joys I surrender.

From the noise of the throng, from the mirth of the dance,
What solace can misery borrow?

Can riot the care-wounded bosom entrance,

Or still the pulsation of sorrow?

TIME.

[Date unknown.]

Passan vostri trionfi e vostre pompe;

Passan le signorie, passano i regni.

Cose 'l tempo trionfa i nomi e'l mondo.-PETRARCA.

HENCE is the stream of Time? What source supplies

WH

Its everlasting flow? What gifted hand

Shall raise the veil by dark Oblivion spread,

And trace it to its spring? What searching eye
Shall pierce the mists that veil its onward course,
And read the future destiny of man?

The past is dimly seen the coming hour
Is dark, inscrutable to human sight:

The present is our own; but, while we speak,
We cease from its possession, and resign
The stage we tread on, to another race,
As vain, and gay, and mortal as ourselves.

And why should man be vain? He breathes to-day,
To-morrow he is not: the laboured stone
Preserves awhile the name of him that was:
Time strikes the marble column to the ground,
And sinks in dust the sculptured monument.
Yet man is vain, and, with exulting thought,
Rears the proud dome and spacious colonnade,
Plants the wide forest, bids the garden bloom
Where frowned the desert, excavates the earth,
And, gathering up the treasures of her springs,
Rolls the full stream through flow'r-enamelled banks,
Where once the heather struck its roots in sand.
With joy he hails, with transitory joy,
His new creations: his insatiate pride
Exults in splendour which he calls his own.
As if possessions could be called our own,
Which, in a point of ever-varying time,
By force, by fraud, by purchase, or by death,
Will change their lords, and pass to other hands.
Then since to none perpetual use is given,
And heir to heir, as wave to wave, succeeds,
How vain the pride of wealth! how vain the boast
Of fields, plantations, parks, and palaces,
If death invades alike, with ruthless arm,
The peasant's cottage, and the regal tower,
Unawed by pomp, inflexible by gold!

Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand
Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away.
Who shall resist the summons? Child of earth!
While yet the blood runs dancing through thy veins,
Impelled by joy and youth's meridian heat,

"Twere wise, at times, to change the crowded haunts
Of human splendour, for the woodland realms
Of solitude, and mark, with heedful ear,
The hollow voice of the autumnal wind,
That warns thee of thy own mortality.

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