Oh! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen,
But a human heart where my own may lean!
A friend, one tender and faithful friend,
Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend,
And leaving not either on earth alone,
Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one!

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I GO, sweet friends! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then-I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh

when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,
Think of me then!-I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

"No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast."

ARE ye for ever to your skies departed?

MILTON.

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore?
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And
ye- -our faded earth beholds you not!

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wander'd from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
'Midst noontide calm, or hush of evening, spoke.
From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace,
And worshipp'd, awe-struck, in that fearful place.
By Chebar's' brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure!

And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing,

'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,

That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone!
Nor have ye left us for the brighter shore,
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over,

When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams!- but a deeper thought our souls may fillOne, One is near- —a spirit holier still!

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM

THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

O! HOW Could Fancy crown with thee

In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,

Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains

Around the victor's tent:

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair;

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

O! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!

And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,

O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race-
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd, and left no trace.
But there thou art!-thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!

'Tis still the same! where'er we tread The wrecks of human power we seeThe marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass-thou ivy never sere!'-
And all is thine at length!

LYCIDAS.

"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.' 29*