Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd,
And grief baptized thy child;
As rivers run, in shade and sun,
He ran his courses wild.

Grieve not, though savage forests
Look'd grimly on the wave,

Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers
Seem'd living in the grave.

Grieve not, though, by the torrent,

Its headlong course was riven,

When o'er it came, in clouds and flame,
Niagara from heaven!

For sometimes gently flowing,

And sometimes chafed to foam,

O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep,

He sought his heavenly home.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the poor;

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace-and the grave!
Sin met thy brother every where!
And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm

He fear'd to scorn or hate;

But, honouring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great.

He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes

The poor man's little more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes

From plunder'd labour's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

SPRING.

AGAIN the violet of our early days

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,

And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;

The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done,
Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run.

Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn!

Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb!

And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born!

Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands

From sea to sea, while daisies infinite

Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,
O'er every hill that under heav'n expands.

FAREWELL,-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame!

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning,

At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee-
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber,
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell-farewell-until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

NOURMAHAL.

THE BEAUTY OF EXPRESSION.

THERE'S a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty,-oh! nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss;
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes,
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams!
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face;
And when angry-for ev'n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes-
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings!
Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;-
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages,
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,—
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.