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.*

[Written in 1858.]

HE convolvulus twines round the stems of its bower,

TH

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.

M

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

[Date unknown.]

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

(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.

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?

W

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

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.

Death comes to all. Not earth's collected wealth, Golcondian diamonds and Peruvian gold, Can gain from him the respite of an hour. He wrests his treasure from the miser's grasp, Dims the pale rose on beauty's fading cheeks, Tears the proud diadem from kingly brows, And breaks the warrior's adamantine shield.

(Man yields to death; and man's sublimest works

Must yield at length to Time.) The proud one thinks
Of life's uncertain tenure, and laments

His transitory greatness. While he boasts
His noble blood, from ancient kings derived,
And views with careless and disdainful eye
The humble and the poor, he shrinks in vain

From anxious thoughts, that teach his sickening heart,
That he is like the beings he contemns,

The creature of an hour; that when a few,

Few years have past, that little spot of earth,

That dark and narrow bed, which all must press,

Will level all distinction. Then he bids

The marble structure rise, to guard awhile,

A little while, his fading memory.

Thou lord of thousands! Time is lord of thee:
Thy wealth, thy glory, and thy name are his.
And may protract the blow, but cannot bar
His certain course, nor shield his destined prey.
The wind and rain assail thy sumptuous domes :
They sink, and are forgotten. All that is

Must one day cease to be. The chiefs and kings,
That awe the nations with their pomp and power,
Shall slumber with the chiefs and kings of old:
And Time shall leave no monumental stone,
To tell the spot of their eternal rest.

A

CHORAL ODE.

[Date unknown.]

Όστις του πλεονος μέρους.

SOPHOCLES: Edipus at Colonas.

LAS! that thirst of wealth and power
Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid,
And shun contentment's mountain-bower,
To chase a false and fleeting shade!
The torrid orb of summer shrouds
Its head in darker, stormier clouds
Than quenched its vernal glow;

And streams, that meet the expanding sea,
Resign the peace and purity

That marked their infant flow.

Go seek what joys, serene and deep,
The paths of wealth and power supply!
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep:
The lips own no satiety,

Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,

And where the turbid Styx impels

Its circling waves along,

The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour

Their loveless, lyreless song.

Man's happiest lot is not to be:

And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.

From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring:
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.

Age comes, unloved, unsocial age,
Exposed to fate's severest shock,