VII. Written at Sea

VIII. On a Domestic Calamity

IX. To Suspense

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I. Music

II. "Tis Eve on the Ocean

III. While I upon thy bosom lean

IV. A Serenade

V. Sacred Melody

VI. The Home of Taliessin

VII. When shall we meet again?

VIII. Come, let us banish Sorrow

IX. And dost thou love the Lyre?

X. My Race is almost done

XI. Yes, methinks that I could

XII. Retouch, sweet Friend-retouch the Lute!

XIII. The Pains of Memory

XIV. The Soul that was shrouded

XV. What need of Years-long years to prove?

XVI. Consolation

NOTES

ERRATUM.

Page 26, line 11,

for

Was it not soothing in that hour,

read Was it not sweet in that dark hour.

PAGE

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THE PROFESSION,

A SKETCH.

For her the Fates, severely kind, ordain

A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Her life a long dead calm of fixed repose,

No pulse that riots and no blood that glows.

POPE.

I.

ON Santa Croce's golden-pillared shrine,
A thousand tapers pour their blended rays
In one rich tide of radiance.—Like a pine,
Lifting its lofty head amid the blaze

Of sunlit snows, stands forward to the
gaze
Of the assembled throng, the Priest supreme,

In full pontificals. His hand he lays

Upon a gorgeous crucifix, the theme

Of the oracular words from his pale lips that stream.

B

II.

Upon his open brow a dignity

3

That well beseems his office is enthroned;

And if the brightness of his coal-black eye
Is something tamed by Time, it must be owned,
It hath a chastened lustre far beyond
The fire of youthful glances;—and if care,
With lines of premature decay hath crowned
His thoughtful forehead, as in fervent prayer

He bends, unfailing faith, hope, peace, are beaming

there!

III.

The chancel-portals, with a crash, unfold,

And a long train of close-veiled nuns pour in,
And gather round the palisades of gold
That gird that glorious shriving-place for sin.
The stately Abbess enters :-then begin
Sweet far-off voices on the ear to steal
With dim, delicious melodies, that win

Their way to the deep heart,-till bursts the swell From organ, harp, voice, lute, in one magnificent peal!

IV.

The chaunt hath ended ;-and throughout the throng
Heart-hushing silence reigns, and every brow
Is raised in keen expectancy.-Ere long,
Once more the Pontiff at the shrine doth bow
Before the golden crucifix; and now

Calls on the fated victim.-She attends

The awful summons, and with footstep slow Draws near ;-the altar's marble stair ascends ;And on the velvet pall, with knee submissive, bends.

V.

Then pours the man of God, in eloquent strain,
The pious exhortation ;—he dilates

Upon the wild variety of pain

Which, in each labyrinth of life, awaits

'The world's tired denizen ;'-pourtrays their fates Whom Pleasure 'witches with her syren charms ; And promises to her who dedicates

Her youth to God,-from Passion's vain alarms A shield, and sure repose in mild Religion's arms!