INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,

CAMBRIDGE.

TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned-
Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only-this immense

And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

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Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.

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TO A SKYLARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

[To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain, ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain :

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.]

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

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A privacy of glorious light is thine;

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

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Of harmony, with instinct more divine:

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

WHY ART THOU SILENT? IS THY LOVE A

PLANT.

[TO A DISTANT FRIEND.]

WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant- 5
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant

For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to
hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine

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Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may

know!

CAMPBELL.

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HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

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But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.