Oh! who with Shakspeare could regardless tread-
Unmoved behold the handmaids of his muse

Dispensing beauties, as their garlands shed
Innumerable blossoms of all hues,

Rich with the breath of morn and spring's celestial dews.

V.

And He! who built his temple in the clouds
And made the Heavens his altar-at whose feet
The stars lay dreaming in their misty shrouds,
And angel-echoes sigh'd in music sweet
From many a solemn shrine and high retreat!
He, Bard of Paradise, whose inward sight
Surpass'd all outward vision-so replete,

That blindness follow'd that unbounded light,

As clouds grow doubly dark where broods the lightning's might.

VI.

Thine are, O Mind!-the colours which delight

The artist in his visionary mood!—

Thou art the inspiration and the might—

The deep enchantment of his solitude!

What time nor breath, nor sounds of life intrude-
Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled-
Then is thy best-thy holiest impulse wooed!
Amid the grand, the wonderful, the wild,
For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled.

VII.

The mighty and immortal energies

That crown'd the genius of young Angelo,
And steep'd his spirit in the richest dyes

That nature's wealthiest fountains could bestow;

The tastes, the passions, sentiments, which show
The eloquence of colours-and those fine
Mysterious sympathies that thrill and glow,

Like stars which burn and tremble as they shine,—
Gifting the painter's sight with glories all divine.

VIII.

Who may behold the works of Raphael's hand

And feel no mountings of the soul within ;
Find not his sphere of intellect expand,

And the creations of the pencil win

His thoughts towards heaven,-to which they are akin!
Ennobling his whole being,-touching chords

Of holiest sweetness,-purifying sin—
Raising a deathless moral that records

The majesty of truth, in tints surpassing words !—

IX.

Hues which are immortalities!—for age,

That moulders the high hand which gave them birth,

Consigns to dust the painter, poet, sage,

Increases but their glory and their worth :—

They are the gifts which dignify the earth!—

Exalt humanity, refine, inspire;

And lend a charm to grief-a grace to mirth!—

That wake the finest echoes of the lyre

And stir the kindling heart with Hope's Promethean fire.

X.

What, though pale penury may haunt the spot
That genius hallows with its earliest flame,

Correggio lives while princes are forgot

The canvass speaks when kingdoms lose their name.

Where lie the great whose gold was all their fame?
May costly cenotaph-can sculptured tomb-
Save titled ashes from oblivion's claim?—

Yet there be names that years may not consume,
Nor misery corrode-nor death despoil their bloom.

XI.

West, Reynolds, Wilson, Lawrence-these are names,
My country!-dear-ay, doubly dear, to thee;
Gems of thine own heart's mine, whose lustre shames
The earlier record of thine history;—

High denizens of immortality,

Enduring pillars of their native shore,—
Whose memories are a people's legacy !—

A rich bequeathment, and beloved the more,
For they were good as great, brave spirits born to soar.

XII.

'Tis not alone the poesy of form-
The melody of aspect-the fine hue
Of lips half blushing, odorous and warm,
Of eyes like heaven's own paradise of blue;
Nor all the graces that encharm the view
And render beauty still more beautiful;
But the resemblances that can renew

Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull; Affections, years may dim-but never quite annul !—

XIII.

Wresting from death and darkness, undecay'd,
The kindred lineaments we honour'd here;
The breast on which our infant brow had laid,
The lips that kiss'd away our first brief tear-

The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier Convey'd to our young souls how great a blow Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear;Oh, heart!-too early wert thou doom'd to know The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below!

XIV.

Then, ah!--for ever sacred be the Art

Which gave me all the grave had left of mine!
I gazed upon this portrait till my heart
Remembers every touch and every line;
And almost do I deem the gift divine,

Direct from heaven, and not from human skill :—
Instinct with love, those noble features shine—

The eyes some new expression seems to fill

And half I know thee dead-half hope thee living still!

THE COTTAGE DOOR.

(From Swain's English Melodies.)

THE starry silence falls

Along my sylvan way,
A spirit walks the earth,

We never meet by day;
And list'ning to the voice

Of years that are no more,
My feet-Oh! know'st thou why?
Have wander'd to thy door!

The quiet taper burns,

And makes thy casement bright, And soft thy shadow falls

Between me and the light;
I gaze as on a shrine

My heart would bend before;
My couch had seen no rest,
Had I not seen thy door.

The night, as if to breathe,

Her starry curtain parts;

The very air seems faint

With breath of lovers' hearts:

Some spirit robes the earth

In light that heaven wore ;

Or is that light thine own;
And is that heaven thy door?

W

TO THE LARK.

(From Swain's English Melodies.)

WHEREFORE is thy song so gay? Wherefore is thy flight so free? Singing-soaring-day by day; Thou'rt a bird of low degree! Tirral-la!

Scarcely shelter'd from the mould,

We thy humble nest can see;
Wherefore is thy song so bold,
Little bird of low degree?
Tirral-la! Tirral-la!