God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth, But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound; from yonder wood it came; Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think A SOLEMN CONCEIT. STATELY trees are growing, On, for ever on. As stately forms were growing, As lusty spirits blowing, As mighty fancies flowing On, for ever on; But there has been leave-taking, Lovely stars are gleaming, As lovely eyes were gleaming, But there has been soul-sundering, For graves grow fat with plundering We see great eagles soaring, And sparkling fountains pouring On, for ever on. As lofty ones were soaring, As sonorous voices roaring, And as sparkling wits were pouring On, for ever on ; But, pinions have been shedding, Every thing is sundering, Every one is wondering, And this huge globe goes thundering On, for ever on. But, 'mid this weary sundering, Heart-breaking and sad wondering, And this huge globe's rude thundering On, for ever on, I would that I were dreaming Where little flowers are gleaming, And the long green grass is streaming O'er the gone, for ever gone! TAYLOR. ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.-TIME-DAY-BREAK. ARTEVELDE (alone). THERE lies a sleeping city. God of dreams! What an unreal and fantastic world Is going on below! Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, How many a large creation of the night, Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd! They should float upward visibly to mine, And lie where I shall front them;-here, I think. [He lies down. If this were over-blessed be the calm [Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly. I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear, VAN DEN BOSCH (without). What ho! Van Artevelde! Thou art an early riser, like myself; Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? ARTEVELDE. What are thy tidings? VAN DEN BOSCH. Nay, what can they be? A page from pestilence and famine's day-book; So many to the pest-house carried in, So many to the dead-house carried out. The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. ARTEVELDE. Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind, VAN DEN BOSCH. Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog ARTEVELDE. No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing. |