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Angel Visits.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace,
And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar's brook ye passed, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,

Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done.
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son?
-Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains,
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by th' unsealed sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That He they sought had triumphed and was gone.
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore;
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over,

When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?

The Treasures of the Deep.

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Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill :
One, One is near-a spirit holier still!

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THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ?— Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain,. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.—
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main !
Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.— Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play: Man yields them to decay.

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The Ivy Song.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming water's roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.---
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!.
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !--
Restore the dead, thou sea!

THE IVY SONG.

H! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,

And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the Vine?

Ivy thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er;

The Ivy Song.

Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more;

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadowed the victor's tent.

Though, shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene

Around the victor's grave—

Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,

Where hollow sounds the lightest tread

Ivy! they know thee well!

And far above the festal vine

Thou wavest where once proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine-
The Rhine, still fresh and young!

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have passed, and left no trace.
But thou art there!-serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,

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A Song of the Rose.

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy! Ivy! all are thine,

Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread
O'er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power—
Days pass-thou ivy never sere,
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
Temple, pillar, shrine!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

"Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace
All'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno
D'una stagion volubile e fugace;

E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,

Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,

Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno."-METASTASIO.

That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?