CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

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SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE! Upon the shores of Greece he stood, and cried "LIBERTY!" and those shores, from age to age Renown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks replied "LIBERTY!" but a Spectre, at his side, Stood mocking:-and its dart, uplifting high, Smote him; he sank to earth in life's fair pride: SPARTA! thy rocks then heard another cry, And Old Ilissus sigh'd-" Die, generous exile, die!"

I will not ask sad Pity to deplore

His wayward errors, who thus early died;

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Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more, Will I say aught of genius misapplied;

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Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride :— But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave, Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side, And pray thy spirit may such quiet have, [grave. That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy

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SO HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE!
There fitly ending,—in that land renown'd,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,—
He, on the Muses' consecrated ground,
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath !—To bands of mirth,
No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound!
HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth

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[earth.

The slow hearse; and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on

Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train; I mark the sad procession with a sigh,

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Silently passing to that village fane, Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie ;— There sleeps THAT MOTHER, Who with tearful eye, Pondering the fortunes of thy early road, Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy; Her son, released from mortal labours' load, Now comes to rest with her, in the same still abode.

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Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak. (Speak when the earth was heap'd upon his head) In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak, She thus might give the welcome of the dead: 40 "Here rest, my son, with me; the dream is fled; The motley mask and the great stir is o’er: Welcome to me, and to this silent bed, Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar Of life, and fretting passions waste the heart no more." BOWLES.

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THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

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I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,

And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains:

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

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I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth:
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a tinge of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

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From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

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Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie, may now be your home:
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,

And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly

With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 35 Come forth to the sunshine; I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

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But ye ye are changed since ye met me last!
A shade of earth has been round you cast!
There is that come over your brow and eye,
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
Ye smile, but your smile hath a dimness yet:
O, what have ye look'd on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!-and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!

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There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dark decay!

There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 55
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
[pass'd P
Are they gone? is their mirth from the green hills
Ye have look'd on death since ye saw me last!

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I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now:
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 65
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a world where there falls no blight;
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light: 70
Where death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore,

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Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not death's: fare ye well, farewell!

HEMANS.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother! O, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?

Is it where the flower of the orange blows,

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And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?" "Not there, not there, my child!”

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"

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"Is it far away, in some region old,

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Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,

And the diamond lights up the secret mine,

And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" -"Not there, not there, my child!"

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