"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell,

DEJECTION; "Tis sweet to hear them both at once,

AN ODE.
Deep in a woody dell.

Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon,
His limbs along the moss, his head

With the old Moon in her arms;

* And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! Upon a mossy heap,

We shall have a deadly storm. With shut-up senses, Edward lay:

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.

I.

WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made And he had pass'd a restless night,

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, And was not well in health ;

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence The women sat down by his side,

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
And talk'd as 't were by stealth.

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes “ The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which better far were mute.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
"Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
No bigger than your e'e;

And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) “A tiny sun, and it has got

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
A perfect glory too;

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, Make up a glory, gay and bright,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! Round that small orb, so blue.'

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst

they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, And then they argued of those rays,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, What color they might be:

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and Says this, “ they’re mostly green;" says that,

live! “They're amber-like to me."

II.

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion d grief,
Were troubling Edward's rest ;

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
And the thumping in his breast.

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, “ A Mother too!” these self-samo words Have I been gazing on the western sky, Did Edward mutter plain ;'

And its peculiar tint of yellow green: His face was drawn back on itself,

And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye ! With horror and huge pain.

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well

Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen: What thoughts were in his mind;

Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew
When he waked up, and stared like one

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
That hath been just struck blind.

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
He sat upright; and ere the dream

III.
Had had time to depart,

My genial spirits fail, "O God forgive me! (he exclaim'd)

And what can these avail
I have torn out her heart."

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavor,
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst

Though I should gaze for ever,
Into ungentle laughter;

On that green light that lingers in the west :
And Mary shiver’d, where she sat,

I may not hope from outward forms to win
And never she smiled after.

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within

IV. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, and To-morrow! and Tomorrow!-

And in our lifu alone does nature live :

over

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

What tell'st thou now about? A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

"T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, Enveloping the Earth

With groans of trampled men, with smarting And from the soul itself must there be sent

wounds_ A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

cold ! V.

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be !

With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is What, and wherein it doth exist,

[loud ! This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and

A tale of less affright,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

And temper'd with delight,
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,

"T is of a little child Life, and Life's Efluence, Cloud at once and Shower,

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother

hear. Cndreamt of by the sensual and the proud Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

VIII. We in ourselves rejoice!

"T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,

Visit her, gentle Şleep! with wings of healing, All colors a suffusion from that light.

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI.

Silent as though they watchi'd the sleeping Earth! There was a time when, though my path was With light heart may she rise, rough,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, This joy within me dallied with distress,

Joy lift her spirit, joy'attune her voice : And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

To her may all things live, froin Pole to Pole, Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

Their life the eddying of her living soul! For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

O simple spirit, guided from above, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, But now afflictions bow me down to earth :

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCIIESS OF But to be still and patient, all I can;

DEVONSHIRE, And haply by abstruse research to steal

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTII STANZA IN HER “ PASSAGE
From my own nature all the natural Man-
This was my sole resource, my only plan :

OVER MOUNT GOTHARD."
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild!
VII.

Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child,

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Reality's dark dream!
I tum from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a screai.

Jor's fondly foster'd child!
Of agony by torture lengthen’d out'

And did you hail the Platform wild, That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest

Where once the Austrian fell
without,

Beneath the shaft of Tell ?
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man ; Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!

Enchanting music lulld your infant ear, Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, those in the valleys. This address to the Storm wind will not With many a bright obtrusive form of art, appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

Detaind your eye from nature : stately vests,