CCXXXII.

VESUVIUS, AS SEEN FROM CAPRI.

A WREATH of light blue vapour, pure and rare,
Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,
In quiet adoration, silently,

Till the faint currents of the upper air
Disdain it, and it forms, dissolving there,
The dome, as of a palace, hung on high
Over the mountain :-underneath it lie

Vineyards, and bays, and cities white and fair. Might we not hope this beauty would engage All living things into one pure delight?

A vain belief;-for here, our records tell, Rome's understanding tyrant, from men's sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel,

The shame of his dishonourable age.

F. HERBERT TRENCH.

CCXXXIII.

IN MEMORIAM: RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, Late Archbishop of Dublin.

HAST known at eve the sea without a sound,

Lying in the beauty of descended rest,

Calm'd by the floating light upon its breast,
Stretch from thy foot unto the distant round?
So gentle to the heart, and so profound
The sight of this man dead: for such a sleep
Hath followed on all tumult of the deep,

And surgy war of elements unbound.

The brow is changed that hath looked up alway,
Through shifting sky, on immortalities.
The soul that, spreading beyond life and death,
Glassed heaven the clearer as it grew in peace,

Now, after the last motion of the breath,
Tarrieth in the face. Oh, let us pray!

CCXXXIV.

THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE.

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,

I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal-

A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
"Thanks be to heaven!" in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! we are not free

To say we see not, for the glory comes Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;

His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms;

And, at prime hour, behold! He follows me

With golden shadows to my secret rooms!"

CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER.

CCXXXV.

THE BUOY-BELL.

How like the leper, with his own sad cry
Enforcing its own solitude, it tolls!

That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals,
To warn us from the place of jeopardy!
O friend of man! sore-vexed by Ocean's power,
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by day;
Thy trembling mouth is filled with bitter spray,
Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour;
High is thy mission, though thy lot is wild-
To be in danger's realm a guardian sound;

In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear,
And earn their blessing as the year goes round;
And strike the key-note of each grateful prayer,
Breathed in their distant homes by wife or child.

CCXXXVI.

ON STARTLING SOME PIGEONS.

A HUNDRED wings are dropt as soft as one
Now ye are lighted-lovely to my sight
The fearful circle of your gentle flight,
Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon:
And then the sober chiding of your tone

As there ye sit from your own roof arraigning
My trespass on your haunts so boldly done,
Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!
O happy happy race! for tho' there clings
A feeble fear about your timid clan,

Yet ye are blest! with not a thought that brings
Disquietude, while proud and sorrowing man,

An eagle, weary of his mighty wings,

With anxious inquest fills his little span.