AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

"I come

To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend."

BARRY CORNWALL.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water;-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still
They seem'd but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs
down,

And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,

A tale of Palestine.'-Meanwhile the bee

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon:

'The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong On my chain'd soul:-'t was not the leaves I heard ;A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd,

Through its proud floating folds; - 't was not the brook

Singing in secret through its grassy glen;

A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen

Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,

And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out,

Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue;
And harps were there I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.-
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track,
What call'd me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!—and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast;
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone.

A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.

"His very heart athirst

To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:-

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more."

COWPER.

THE hollow dash of waves!-the ceaseless roar!

Silence, ye billows!- vex my soul no more.

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;

Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?

Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,

And the fire-fly's glance through the dark'ning shades
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall-
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,

The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still-
I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell-
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!-down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,'
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way!

Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:

Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen

Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt."

GOETHE.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.