DARK with age these towers look down Never more will that dark wall Never more the sounding yew, Never more those halls will ring The man was old, his hair was gray- KING Henry sat amid his court, and of the nobles there Not one with William Stanley for favour could compare; He was the royal chamberlain, and on his bended knee Within King Henry's silver cup the red wine poured he. There came a knight in presence there, he named my master's name, As he stood betting golden coin upon the royal game. And on Sir Robert Clifford's word, they took his sword away, I allude to the voyage down the Euphrates. Conquest and commerce have been the two great principles of And civilization. It is only of late years that we have seen the superiority of the sail over the sword. The expedition, whose advantages I have ventured above to prophesy, is in the noblest spirit of enlightened enterprise. We must God take with us our knowledge; and so disturb, and eventually destroy the darkness, mental and moral, too long gathered on the East. The generous earnestness of science, and the enthusiasm of enterprise, were never more nobly marked than in the concluding passage of Colonel Chesney's letter to the Admiralty, announcing the loss of the Tigris steamer:- "We are, therefore, continuing our descent and survey to Bussorah, hoping not only to bring up the mail from India within the specified time, but also, if it pleases God to spare us, to demonstrate the speed, economy, and commercial advantages of the river Euphrates, provided the decision of ministers shall be, in the true spirit of Englishmen, to give it a fair trial, rather than abandon the original purpose in consequence of an unforeseen, and, as it is proved, an unavoidable calamity." My William Stanley to the Tower was prisoner sent that day. only knows the hearts of men, but 'twas a wondrous thing noble master should conspire against the crowned king; For well I know on Bosworth Field it was his red right hand That placed upon Earl Richmond's brow King Richard's royal band. But ancient service is forgot; and he, the Wiseman, said, Think thou no evil of the king upon thy lonely bed; No nobles bore the noble's pall, there was no funeral bell, yet those scenes are present, as they were of our age But I stood weeping by the grave of him I loved Such is the mighty mastery of one enchanted page. Beneath the tree in sunshine-beside the hearth in snow, What hours of deep enjoyment to him and his we owe! And yet recall the giver-recall him as those saw Before his glorious being obey'd our nature's law; His strength has soon departed-his cheek is sunk and wan He is, before his season, a worn and weary man. The fine creative spirit that lit his path of yore, Its light remains for others-it warms himself no more. The long and toilsome midnight, the fever and the haste, The trouble and the trial, have done their work of waste. And such is still the recompense appointed for the mind, That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of its kind. The poet yields the beautiful that in his being lives: Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to whom he gives. They dwell amid his visions-for new delights they cry; But he who form'd the lovely may lay him down and die. Then comes the carved marble-then late remorse is shown, And the poet's search for sympathy ends in a funeral stone. STRADA ST. URSOLA,-MALTA. YOUNG knight, that broider'd cloak undo, No more the victor of the ring, The lists, the dance are closed for thee. Look to the past-if present there Nothing which charmeth thee to live. Thy cheek is pale-thy brow is worn- THE EARL OF SANDWICH. THEY call'd the Islands by his name,* A flattery-such as poets' are; Who link with lovely things their praise, But here it was a sailor's thought, That named the island from the EarlThat dreams of England might be brought To those soft shores, and seas of pearl. How very fair they must have seem'd When first they darken'd on the deep! Like all the wandering seamen dream'd When land rose lovely on his sleep. How many dreams they turn'd to truth When first they met the sailor's eyes; Green with the sweet earth's southern youth, And azure with her southern skies. The Sandwich Islands were so called in honour of the Earl of Sandwich, then first lord of the Admiralty. (42) And yet our English thought beguiles And calls them by some name of home. TOWN AND HARBOUR OF ITHACA. By another light surrounded Than our actual sky; With the purple ocean bounded Does the island lie, Like a dream of the old world. And the stranger sails were furl'd Still does fancy see the palace, With its carved gates; Where the suitors drain'd the chalice, Stern, and dark, and veil'd are they. Hovers the avenging day Grant my fancy pardon, If amid these trees Still it sees the garden Of old Laertes, Where he met his glorious son. And the rich brown pears were stooping While his daily task was done "Tis a vain and cold invention, Shrined in manhood's general heart. One almighty mind--one only, Be the world a thing apart, Of the glorious island, 2e2 BELVOIR CASTLE: SEAT OF THE DUKE OF RUTLAND. INSCRIBED TO LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. "Tis an old and stately castle, In an old and stately wood; Thoughts and shadows gather'd round it, Of the ages it had stood. But not of the ancient warriors, Whose red banners swept its towers, Nor of any lovely lady, Blooming in its former bowers Think I now ;-but one as lovely, And more gifted, haunts my line. In the visions round yon castle Is no fairer one than thine! I can fancy thee in childhood Wandering through each haunted scene, Peopling the green glades around thee With the thoughts of what had been; Asking of each leaf its lesson, Of each midnight star its tale, Till thy fancy caught revealings From the music of the gale. Yet, whence did thy lute inherit All it knows of human grief?— What dost thou know of the knowledge On life's dark and daily leaf? In thy woman-hearted pages, How much sympathy appears With the sorrowful and real, All that only speaks in tears! Have those large bright eyes been darken'd Rather would I deem thee dreaming But thou hast the poet's birthright, REGATTA,-WINDERMERE LAKE. WITH sunshine on their canvass, And sunshine at their side Like court beauties at a pageant, The stately vessels glide. At first, I only buried one, And she was borne along At first they sent for me to pray Beside the bed of death: They bless'd their household, and they breath'd Prayer in their latest breath. But then men died more rapidly— They had not time to pray; And from the pillow love had smooth'd And then there came the fasten'd door Then came the guarded street- And men, upon the bed of death, Met only stranger eyes: The nurse-and guard, stern, harsh, and wan Remain'd, unpitying, by; They had known so much wretchedness, They did not fear to die. Heavily rung the old church bells, BLACK LINN OF LINKLATER. But no one came to prayer: The weeds were growing in the street, Silence and Fate were there. O'er the first grave by which I stood, Tears fell, and flowers were thrown, The last grave held six hundred lives,* And there I stood alone. SCALE FORCE, CUMBERLAND. This cascade, distant about a mile and a half from the village of Buttermere, exceeds in extent of fall the renowned Niagara, yet, owing to a difficulty of access, it is frequently neglected by the tourist. Ir sweeps, as sweeps an army Yet the sky is blue above it, It rejoices in the sunshine When after heavy rain It gathers the far waters To dash upon the plain. It is terrible, yet lovely, Beneath the morning rays: Like a dream of strength and beauty, It haunted those who gaze. We feel that it is glorious, A generous inspiration Is on the outward world; It waketh thoughts and feelings In careless coldness furl'd. To love and to admire A fact, mentioned to me by a clergyman, Mr. Howe, whose duty enforced residence during the ravages of the yellow fever. "Toujours lui-lui partout."-Victor Hugo. BUT of Himself, Him only speak these hills! Singing as sings a child. Like fancies flung I see the ancient master pale and worn, Though on him shines the lovely southern heaven And Naples greets him with festivity. The Dying by the Dead :-for his great sake, They have laid bare the city of the lost. His own creations fill the silent streets; The Roman pavement rings with golden spurs, The Highland plaid shades dark Italian eyes, And the young king himself is Ivanhoe. But there the old man sits—majestic—wan, Himself a mighty vision of the past; The glorious mind has bow'd beneath its toil; He does not hear his name on foreign lips That thank him for a thousand happy hours. He does not see the glittering groups that press In wonder and in homage to his side; Death is beside his triumph.* THE EVENING STAR. AH, loveliest! that through my casement gleaming, Bringeth thy native heaven along with thee, Touching with far-off light that lovelier dreaming, Which but for that, all earthly else would be. The smoke is round the housetops slowly wreathing, Until upgather'd in one gloomy cloud, It rises like the city's heavy breathing, Material, dense, the sunshine's spreading shroud. * When Sir Walter Scott arrived at Naples, the picturesque imagination of the south was all alive to do him honour. Contrary to established etiquette, the king called upon him. "Nice customs courtesy to great names." A fête was then given in his honour, and Pompeii was chosen for its site. All the guests took some character from the Waverley novels. The deserted city echoed with music; lamps flung their light over walls so long unconscious of festivity. The city of the dead suited well the festival of the dying. Sir Walter was present, but unconscious; he sat wan, exhausted, and motionless," the centre of the glittering ring" formed by his own genius. The triumph had its usual moral-it came too late. |