Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, The heaviest plummet of despair can go But whence that sudden check? that fearful start? He hears an uncouth sound Anon his lifted eyes Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, No pause admitted, no design avow'd! The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid; Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should She labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Whence angry perturbations,-and that look Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim! O matchless perfidy! portentous lust. Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade, The noble Syracusan low in dust! Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. INCIDENT AT BRUGES. IN Bruges town is many a street A harp that tuneful prelude made The measure, simple truth to tell, Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords, Yet sad as sweet,-for English words It was a breezy hour of eve; Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave Cloth'd with innocuous fire; But, where we stood, the setting sun And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, Not always is the heart unwise, If even a passing Stranger sighs Such feeling press'd upon the soul, A feeling sanctified By one soft trickling tear that stole Fresh from the beauty and the bliss A JEWISH FAMILY. IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE, GENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings To pencil dear and pen, Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine. And all his majesty— A studious forehead to incline O'er this poor family. The Mother-her thou must have seen, In spirit, ere she came To dwell these rifted rocks between, Or found on earth a name; An image, too, of that sweet Boy Thy inspirations give Of playfulness, and love, and joy, Downcast, or shooting glances far, That blend the nature of the star I speak as if of sense beguil'd; Yet am I with the Jewish Child, |