THE THREE BROTHERS.

I.

THEY dwelt in a valley of sunshine, those Brothers;

Green were the palm trees that shadow'd their dwelling;

Sweet, like low music, the sound of the fountains That fell from the rocks round their beautiful home :

There the pomegranate blush'd like the cheek of the maiden

When she hears in the distance the step of her lover,

And blushes to know it before her young friends. They dwelt in the valley-their mine was the

corn-field

Heavy with gold, and in autumn they gather'd The grapes that hung clustering together like rubies:

Summer was prodigal there of her roses,

The banks of the river were cover'd with gardens: And even when sunset was pale on the ocean, The turrets were shining with taper and lamp, Which fill'd the night-wind, as it pass'd them, with odours.

The angel of death came and summon'd the monarch;

But he look'd on the city, the fair and the mighty, And said, "Ye proud temples, I leave ye my fame."

IV.

The conqueror went forth, like the storm over

ocean,

His chariot-wheels red with the blood of the vanquish'd;

Nations grew pale at the sound of his trumpet, Thousands rose up at the wave of his banners, And the valleys were white with the bones of the slain.

He stood on a mountain, no foeman was near him, Heavy and crimson his banner was waving

song.

II.

blood,

glory

Lived in each bosom-that hope of the future

V.

the valleys

Were fill'd with the sweetness that sigh'd from its

strings;

Maidens, whose dark eyes but open'd on palaces,
Wept as at twilight they murmur'd his words.
He sang to the exile the songs of his country,
Till he dream'd for a moment of hope and of

home;

He sang to the victor, who loosen'd his captives,' While the tears of his childhood sprang into his

eyes.

He died and his lute was bequeath'd to the

cypress,

And his tones to the hearts that loved music and song.

VI.

Long ages pass'd, from the dim world of shadows These brothers return'd to revisit the earth; They came to revisit the place of their glory,

my glory,

And he built him a temple-cach porphyry column Was the work of a life; and he built him a cityA hundred gates open'd the way to his palace, (Too few for the crowds that there knelt as his slaves,)

They look'd for the palace- the temple of marble

The rose-haunted gardens-a desert was there; The sand, like the sea in its wrath, had swept o'er them,

And tradition had even forgotten their names.

walls.

And his triumph had pass'd away like a vapour,

daughter,

Singing a sweet song remember'd of old,

And the song was caught up, and sent back like an echo,

From a young voice that came from a cottage beside.

Then smiled the Minstrel, "You hear it, my Brothers,

My Songs yet are sweet on the lute and the lip." King, not a vestige remains of your palaces; Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles: But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of musicHe appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets.

dead!

O! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow, Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lovest

now;

When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their mark;

Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more dark;

When thy feelings lie fetter'd like waters in frost,

Or, scatter'd too freely, are wasted and lost : For aye cometh sorrow, when youth has pass'd by

What saith the Arabian? Its memory's a sigh.

CHANGE.

I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
For the departing colour of thy flowers-
The green leaves early falling from thy boughs-
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs-
Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers;
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,
To haunt the ruin'd heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate

Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate.

WHEN those eyes have forgotten the smile they

wear now,

When care shall have shadow'd that beautiful browWhen thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead, And thy heart turns back pining to days that are fled

Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass:

O! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee
How rose-touch'd the page of thy future must be !
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
But flowers that flourish but hopes that are fair;
And what is thy present a southern sky's spring,
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the
wing.

As the rose by the fountain flings down on the

wave

Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave:

So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour, But the heart has its fading as well as the flower. The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are

gone,

And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on.

EDITH.

WEEP not, weep not, that in the spring We have to make a grave;

The flowers will grow, the birds will sing, The early roses wave;

And make the sod we're spreading fair,

For her who sleeps below:

We might not bear to lay her there

In winter frost and snow.

We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,

With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And
eyes that only smiled;
A something shadowy and frail
Was even in her mirth:

She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.

There was too clear and blue a light
Within her radiant eyes;
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.

She was too thoughtful for her years,
Its shell the spirit wore;
And when she smiled away our fears,
We only fear'd the more.
The crimson deepen'd on her check,

Her blue eyes shone more clear, And every day she grew more weak, And every hour more dear.

I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep;

I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness,
Have I, myself, forgotten less?

I've mingled with the young and fair,
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,

In silence and in shade.

How could I see a sweet mouth shine With smiles, and not remember thine?

Ah! it is well we can forget,

Or who could linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set,

On earth whose flowers are gone?
For who could welcome loved ones near,
Thinking of those once far more dear,

Our early friends, those of our youth?
We cannot feel again
The earnest love, the simple truth,

Which made us such friends then.
We grow suspicious, careless, cold;
We love not as we loved of old.

No more a sweet necessity,

Love must and will expand,
Loved and beloving we must be,
With open heart and hand,
Which only ask to trust and share
The deep affections which they bear.

Our love was of that early time;
And now that it is past,

It breathes as of a purer clime

Than where my lot is cast,
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears
In thinking of those early years.

It shock'd me first to see the sun
Shine gladly o'er thy tomb;

To see the wild flowers o'er it run
In such luxuriant bloom.
Now I feel glad that they should keep
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.

The heaven whence thy nature came
Only recall'd its own;

It is Hope that now breathes thy name,
Though borrowing Memory's tone.

I feel this earth could never be
The native home of one like thee.

Farewell! the early dews that fall
Upon thy grass-grown bed
Are like the thoughts that now recall
Thine image from the dead.
A blessing hallows thy dark cell-
I will not stay to weep. Farewell!

Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food
For many a thought of pain;
For who can gaze upon thy flood,
Nor wish it to remain
The same pure and unsullied thing
Where heaven's face is as clear
Mirror'd in thy blue wandering

As heaven's face can be here.

Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy breast, The willows woo thy stay,

In vain, thy waters may not rest,

Their course must be away.

In yon wide world, what wilt thou find?
What all find-toil and care:
Your flowers you have left behind

Far other weight to bear.
The heavy bridge confines your stream,

Through which the barges toil,

Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam,
Thy waves have caught the soil.
On-on-though weariness it be,
By shoal and barrier cross'd,

Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea,
And there art wholly lost.

Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream-
Such fate will be thine own;
Thy lute's hope is a morning dream,
And when have dreams not flown?

ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD.

METHINKS it is a glorious thing
To sail upon the deep;
A thousand sailors under you,
Their watch and ward to keep :
To see your gallant battle-flag
So scornfully unroll'd,

As scarcely did the wild wind dare
To stir one crimson fold:

To watch the frigates scatter'd round,
Like birds upon the wing;

Yet know they only wait your will-
It is a glorious thing.
Our admiral stood on the deck,

And look'd upon the sea;

He held the glass in his right hand, And far and near look'd he :

He could not see one hostile ship

Abroad upon the main ;

From east to west, from north to south,

It was his own domain.

"Good news for England this, good news,"

Forth may her merchants fare;

Thick o'er the sea, no enemy

Will cross the pathway there.

A paleness came upon his cheek,

A shadow to his brow;

Alas! our good Lord Collingwood,

What is it ails him now?

Tears stand within the brave man's eyes,
Each softer pulse is stirr'd:

It is the sickness of the heart,
Of hope too long deferr'd.

He's pining for his native seas,
And for his native shore;
All but his honour he would give,
To be at home once more.
He does not know his children's fate;
His wife might pass him by,
He is so alter'd, did they meet,
With an unconscious eye:

He has been many years at sea,

He's worn with wind and wave; He asks a little breathing space Between it and his grave: He feels his breath come heavily, His keen eye faint and dim; It was a weary sacrifice

That England ask'd of him.

He never saw his home again-
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of his battle-flag,
Told when his life was done.
His sailors walk'd the deck and wept;
Around them howl'd the gale;
And far away too orphans knelt―
A widow's cheek grew pale.

Amid the many names that light
Our history's blazon'd line,

I know not one, brave Collingwood,
That touches me like thine.

THE FIRST GRAVE.

[This poem originated in the circumstance of the first grave being formed in the churchyard of the new church at Brompton. The place had been recently a garden, and some of the flowers yet showed themselves among the grass, where this one tenant, the forerunner of its popula tion, had taken up his last abode.]

A SINGLE grave!-the only one

In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.

A single grave!-—my heart has felt
How utterly alone