For blindness wraps that world-our touch may turn Who then to power and glory shall restore Attune those viewless chords?-There is but One! -Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade- TASSO AND HIS SISTER. "Devant vous est Sorrente: là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie." SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd The citron's breath went by; While the deep gold of eventide Burn'd in the Italian sky. Her bower was one where daylight's close As thence the voice of childhood rose But still and thoughtful, at her knee, Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song, and dancing glee, With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gazed With brows through parting ringlets raised, They stood in silent grace. Corinne. 120 TASSO AND HIS SISTER. While she-yet something o'er her look His of the gifted Pen and Sword,* She read of fair Erminia's flight, Of him she read, who broke the charm Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, When a strange voice of sudden grief Burst on the gentle scene. The mother turn'd-a way-worn man, But drops that would not stay for pride, As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 66 "Am I so changed?-and yet we two From wreaths which thou hast made. My thoughts are dim with clouds of care- It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men. "Life hath been heavy on my head; I come, a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, -She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept, She fell upon his neck, and wept, Her brother's name!-and who was he, -He was the bard of gifts divine, TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read among the hills, Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 122 THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews True bard and holy !-thou art e'en as one Sees where the springs of living waters lie- Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free! THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. HARK! from the dim church-tower, Sadly 'twas heard by him who came Sadly and sternly heard As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board, with the mirthful word, Until that sullen, booming knell, On harp, and lip, and spirit fell, Wo for the wanderer then In the wild-deer's forests far! No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, Might guide him as a star. And wo for him, whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill'd, Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still'd. And yet a deeper wo, For the watchers by the bed, Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low, For the mother doom'd unseen to keep Darkness, in peasant's cot! While Freedom, under that shadowy pall, Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize, Heap the yule-fagots high, Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. OH! lovely voices of the sky Which hymn'd the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang," Peace on earth" ? Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams Around the palms, and o'er the streams, |