And yon high-hanging forest to the wind
Varies its many hues. Gaze, Stranger, here!
And let thy softened heart intensely feel
How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence
Departing to the city's crowded streets,

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts

From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect
That Man creates the evil he endures.

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT AT SILBURY-HILL.

THIS mound in some remote and dateless day
Reared o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detain thee, Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival

The Bard has harped, but perished is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs

The wind that passes and is heard no more.

Go, Traveller, and remember when the pomp
Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind,

Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.

Southey.

* The Northern Nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.

LOVE.

T. Moore.

TO sigh yet feel no pain,

To weep yet scarce know why,
To sport an hour with beauty's chain
Then throw it idly by;—

To kneel at many a shrine

Yet lay the heart on none,

To think all other charms divine
But those we just have seen;

This is love, careless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Thro' life unchill'd unmov'd,

To love in wintry age the same
That first in youth we lov'd;

To feel that we adore,

To such refin'd excess,

That tho' the heart would break with more,

We could not live with less;

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

ADDRESS TO THE MOON, IN IMITATION OF WILSON.
Anonymous.

COME forth sweet spirit from thy cloudy cave,
Far in the bosom of the starless night,
And suddenly above the mountain top,
Lifting thy placid beauty, all at once
Spread a still rapture o'er the encircling earth
That seems just waking from some heavenly dream
Hail! soft-brow'd sovereign of the sea and sky
Thee heaven and all its glories worship. Thee
Worships old ocean with his million waves;
And tho' mid fleecy clouds as still as snow
Or the blue depths of stainless sanctity
Lies thy beloved way-yet often thou
Art seen careering on a throne of storms
Seemingly borne on to eternity;

So wild the hurried glimpses of thy face,
Perturbed yet beautiful.

LINES,

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK-LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMON PLACE-BOOK.

THERE is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy dear memorials free,
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus within thy mind
One little vacant corner find,

T. Moore.

Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been;
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

T. Moore.

t

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and brief,

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue;

But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valu’d and try'd,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No! perish the hearts and the laws that try

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

T. Campbell.

OF Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determin'd hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathan's afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.-

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak,' our captains cried!" when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.