POETRY.

THE COLOSSEUM.

FROM POEMS BY R. M. MILNES.

I STOOD One night, ‚—one rich Italian night,
When the Moon's lamp was prodigal of light,—
Within that Circus, whose enormous range,
Tho' rent and shattered by a life of change,
Still stretches forth its undiminish'd span,
Telling the weakness and the strength of Man.
In that vague hour which magnifies the great,
When Desolation seems most desolate,
I thought not of the rushing crowds of yore,
Who filled with din the vasty corridor;
Those hunters of fierce pleasure are swept by,
And host on host has trampled where they lie.
But where is he, that stood so strong and bold,
In his thick armour of enduring gold,
Whose massive form irradiant as the sun,
Baptized the work his glory beamed upon"
With his own name, Colossal ?-From the day
Has that sublime illusion shrunk away,
Leaving a blank weed-matted Pedestal
Of his high place the sole memorial ?—
And is this miracle of imperial power,
The chosen of his tutelage, hour by hour,
Following his doom, and Rome, alive,-awake?
Weak mother! orphaned as thou art, to take
From Fate this sordid boon of lengthened life,
Of most unnatural life which is not life,
As thou wert used to live! oh! rather stand
In thy green waste as on the palm-fleckt sand,
Old Tadmor, hiding not its death ;-a tomb,
Haunted by sounds of life, is none the less a tomb.-
Then from that picture of the wreck-strewn ground,
Which the arch held in frame-work, slowly round
I turned my eyes and fixt them, where was seen
A long spare shadow stretcht across the green,
The shadow of the Crucifix,-that stood,
A simple shape of rude uncarven wood,
Raising, erect and firm, its lowly head
Amid that pomp of ruin,-amid the dead,
A sign of salient life;-the Mystery

Of Rome's immortal being was then made clear to me.

!

SONNET.

From the Same.

I LOVE the Forest ;-I could dwell among
That silent people, till my thoughts up-grew
In nobly ordered form, as to my view
Rose the succession of that lofty throng:-
The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves
Formed by the slow decay of numerous years,-
The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears
Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves,—
The chirp and flutter of some single bird,
The rustle in the brake,-what precious store
Of joys have these on Poets' hearts conferred!
And then at times to send one's own voice out,
In the full frolic of one startling shout,
Only to feel the after-stillness more!

A WALK IN A CHURCH-YARD.

FROM POEMS BY R. C. TRENCH.

WE walked within the Church-yard bounds,
My little boy and I—

He laughing, running happy rounds,
I pacing mournfully.

"Nay, child! it is not well," I said,
"Among the graves to shout,
To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout.".

A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play,

A moment stilled his joyous tongue,
Almost as hushed as they.

Then, quite forgetting the command
In life's exulting burst
Of early glee, let go my hand,
Joyous as at the first.

And now I did not check him more,
For, taught by Nature's face,

I had grown wiser than before
Even in that moment's space

She spread no funeral pall above
That patch of church-yard ground,
But the same azure vault of love
As hung o'er all round.

And white clouds o'er that spot would pass,

As freely as elsewhere;

The sunshine on no other grass

A richer hue might wear;

And formed from out that very mould

In which the dead did lie,

The daisy with its eye of gold
Looked up into the sky;

The rook was wheeling overhead,
Nor hastened to be gone-
The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perched on a grey head-stone.

And God, I said, would never give
This light upon the earth,
Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,

If our one wisdom were to mourn,
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm and earthy bed.

Oh no, the glory Earth puts on,
The child's unchecked delight,
Both witness to a triumph won
(If we but judged aright,)

A triumph won o'er sin and death-
From these the Saviour saves;
And, like a happy infant, Faith
Can play among the graves.

TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST SINGING IN WINTER.

From the Same.

OH light of heart and wing,
Light-hearted and light-winged, that dost cheer
With song of sprightliest note the waning year,
Thou canst so blithely sing,

That we must only chide our own dull heart,
If in thy music we can bear no part.