Who may their green depths sound?

Save where, 'mid thronging stems, rude walls of rock
Grey glimmer, relics of an earthquake's shock,
In strength of iron bound;

While hoary oaks, in scorn of human prime,
Vaunt how their inert being triumphs over Time!

They live from age to age,

Waving their green boughs o'er the sons of earth,
As, at their feet, we sport us from our birth,
Till blotted from life's page!

They watch us come and go-nor cease to bloom
O'er generations swept into the tomb!

The lordly sun in vain

Pours his bright flood upon the verdant sea;
They bid him back, nor give him entrance free
Within their shadowy reign;

And, as the seasons haste their wings unfold,
Take a new lease of Time, and pay their leaves of gold.

Nor moves their giant form,

Far-stretching, 'neath the soft and gentle breeze
Of Man's delights, nor yet when 'mong the trees
Sweeps Passion's storm-

To them alike-they mark him smile or sigh,
Live, laugh, and frolic-sicken, moan, and die!

Amid the roar they stood

Of elemental rage, while heaved the breast

Of nations with the spirit of unrest,

Which drank a monarch's blood

Reckless, who climbs Ambition's summit now-
They mark; nor bend the knee, nor shake the hoary brow.

Shall they thus live-and we

Their lords,-who wield the axe, and at a blow
Could fearless lay their leafy honours low-
Must die-It cannot be !

We were not made for Time, nor brook to yield
Of length of life the palm, to lordlings of the field!

What tho' they shake their locks From year to year in green or golden prime, Weaving a summer-wreath for hoary Time, Despite the tempest's shocks

His doom is fixed, and they must flit and fail; While we, in changeless youth, a life immortal hail!

Thus, as we wend our way,

Let them not point at us, and laugh to view
Each airy bubble, with a gilded hue,

Fill up our little day

While Heav'n invites, disport with things of earth,

And yield to forest-trees the glory of our birth!

Shall we debase our love

Heirs to an immortality of light;

While they, who children are of earth and night,
Raise their green boughs above?

O no! we lift our gaze to an eternal clime,
And, tearless, leave to them their heritage of Time!

LYONS.

17

O LYONS! nurtured by thy double tide,1
Which spreads its arms with mother's tenderness,
And clasps its hands below in fond embrace,
Bearing the wealth of kingdoms to thy side--
What ail'st thee, that thou, restless, scorn'st abide
In thy rich lot, but, like an o'er-fed steed,
Champing the curb, wilt not abase thy pride,
And follow, where the steps of wisdom lead?
Art thou not free? or do the distant Alps
Hem in thy boundings by their frozen scalps?
Go! learn that Freedom loves those walls surround,
Where men unite in mutual service bound;

Then, then the murmur of thy thousand looms shall be
Of Liberty the song-OBEY, AND THOU ART FREE!

1 The Rhone and the Saone.

18

TOULON.

THE SABBATH.

WHAT EVIL THING IS THIS THAT YE DO, AND PROFANE THE SABBATH DAY. NEH. XIII. 17.

THERE is no Sabbath here!
What tho' the day shine clear,
No wintry tempests blow
With breath of gelid snow,

But ever-smiling Spring
Her golden odours fling,
And bright in every eye
Beam life and gaiety,
And song and laugh abound-
I tread unhallowed ground,
-There is no Sabbath here!

Amid the crowded throng,
Which pours its flood along,
I seek some Sabbath-sign,
Raised to the day divine:
None heed their Lord's behest-

None know His day of rest!