Whose love was in the grave-whose hope in heaven.

Yet a fine nature must have been his own;

A sense of beauty-and a strong delight

In the brave seeming of the visible world,
Whose loveliness is like a sympathy.
Winds the fair river through the vale below,
With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods
Hang the far summits with their changeful shade.
In the soft summer fields are many flowers,
Which breathe at evening on the scented wind.
Still the wild cherry trees are growing round,
Which first he planted, yet he loved the
world-

The bright-the beautiful-the glorious worldBut loved it as those love who love on earth, Only the hope that looketh up to heaven.

THE SNOWDROP.

THOU beautiful new comer,

With white and maiden brow; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now? This dim and shelter'd alley

Is dark with winter green;

Not such as in the valley
At sweet springtime is seen.

The lime tree's tender yellow,

The aspen's silvery sheen, With mingling colours mellow

The universal green.

Now solemn yews are bending
'Mid gloomy fires around;
And in long dark wreaths descending,
The ivy sweeps the ground.

No sweet companion pledges
Thy health as dewdrops pass;
No rose is on the hedges,

No violet in the grass.
Thou art watching, and thou only,
Above the earth's snow tomb;
Thus lovely, and thus lonely,
I bless thee for thy bloom.

Though the singing rill be frozen,

While the wind forsakes the west; Though the singing birds have chosen

Some lone and silent rest;

Like thee, one sweet thought lingers
In a heart else cold and dead,
Though the summer's flowers, and singers,
And sunshine, long hath fled :

"Tis the love for long years cherish'd, Yet lingering, lorn, and lone; Though its lovelier lights have perish'd, And its earlier hopes are flown. Though a weary world hath bound it, With many a heavy thrall;

And the cold and changed surround it, It blossometh o'er all.

THE ASTROLOGER.

ALAS! for our ancient believings,

We have nothing now left to believe; The oracle, augur, and omen

No longer dismay and deceive.

All hush'd are the oaks of Dodona;

No more on the winds of the north, As it sways to and fro the huge branches, The voice of the future comes forth.

No more o'er the flower-wreathed victim
The priest at the red altar bends:
No more on the flight of the vulture

The dark hour of victory depends.

The stars have forgotten their science,
Or we have forgotten its lore;
In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight,
We question of fortune no more.

O folly! to deem that far planets

Recorded the hour of our birth;
To glorious they are, and too lovely,
For the wo and the weakness of earth.
Now the science of fate is grown lowly,
We question of gipsies and cards;
"Tis a question how much of the actual
The fate of the votary rewards.

"Tis the same in all ages; the future
Still seems to the spirit its home;
We
We are weary and worn with the present,
But happiness still is to come.

THE INDIAN GIRL.

SHE sat alone beside her hearth-
For many nights alone;
She slept not on the pleasant couch

Where fragrant herbs were strown.

At first she bound her raven hair
With feather and with shell;
But then she hoped; at length, like night,
Around her neck it fell.

O! boundaries of Europe!

O! rivers great and small! O! islands, gulfs, and capitals! How I abhorr'd ye all!

And then those dreadful tables

Of shillings, pence, and pounds! Though I own their greater trouble In after life abounds.

"Tis strange how memory lingers
About those early hours;
And we talk of happy childhood,
As if such had been ours.

But distance lends enchantment To all we suffer'd then; Thank Heaven, that I never Can be a child again!

FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON.

THE western coasts of India abound with a great variety of fish, of excellent quality; and a considerable population in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of catching the fish is as follows: piles or stakes, of considerable size and length, are sunk and secured at certain distances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles out to sea; these are driven or forced down by fastening boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This operation is further assisted at the same time by a number of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine productions.

BURN yet awhile, my wasting lamp, Though long the night may be; The wind is rough, the air is damp, Yet burn awhile for me.

The peepul tree beside our door,

How dark its branches wave; They seem as they were drooping o'er Its usual haunt, the grave.

Why was it planted here to bring
The images of death?
Surely some gladder tree should spring
Near human hope and breath.

O dove that dwellest its leaves among, I hear thee on the bough;

I hear thy melancholy song, Why art thou singing now? (39)

All things are omens to the heart

That keeps a vigil lone, When wearily the hours depart,

And yet night is not flown.

I see the lights amid the bay,
How pale and wan they shine;
O wind, that wanderest on thy way,
Say which of them is mine.

A weary lot the fisher hath
Of danger and of toil,
Over the wild waves is his path,
Amid their depths his spol.

I cannot hear the wind go by
Without a sudden fear;

I cannot look upon the sky,
Nor fear that storms are near.

I look upon the sunny sea,

And think of rocks below; Still present are the shoals to me O'er which my love must go.

I cannot sleep as others sleep,

Night has more care than day; My heart is out upon the deep, I weep-I watch-I pray.

Ah, see a speck the waves among,
A light boat cuts the foam,
The wild wind beareth me his song,
Thank God, he is come home.

SCENES IN LONDON.
THE SAVOYARD IN GROSVENOR SQUARE.

He stands within the silent square,
That square of taste, of gloom;
A heavy weight is on the air,
Which hangs as o'er a tomb.

It is a tomb which wealth and rank
Have built themselves around-
The general sympathies have shrank,
Like flowers on high dry ground.

None heed the wandering boy who sings,
An orphan though so young;
None think how far the singer brings
The songs which he has sung.

None cheer him with a kindly look,
None with a kindly word;
The singer's little pride must brook
To be unpraised, unheard.
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