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FANCY IN NUBIBUS.
Oh it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold
'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous
land ! Or listening to the tide with closed sight, Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand
By those deep sounds possessed of inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odysee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
PHANTASMION'S QUEST OF JARINE.
Yon changeful cloud will soon thy aspect wear, So bright it grows :—and now, by light winds
shaken,O ever seen yet ne'er to be o'ertaken! Those waving branches seem thy billowy hair.
The cypress glades recall thy pensive air ;
Nay e'en amid the cataract's loud storm,
Thy robe's light folds in airy tumult sweeping ; Then silent are the falls : 'mid colours warm Gleams the bright maze beneath their splendour
GUNS OF PEACE.
Sunday Night, March 30th 1856.
Ghosts of dead soldiers in the battle slain,
THE TRUE BASIS OF POWER.
POWER's footstool is Opinion, and his throne
The Human Heart: thus only kings maintain
Prerogatives God-sanctioned. The coarse chain Tyrants would bind around us may be blown Aside, like foam, that with a breath is gone:
For there's a tide within the popular vein
That despots in their pride may not restrain ; Swoln with a vigour that is all its own.
Ye who would steer along these doubtful seas,
Lifting your proud sails to high heaven, beware! Rocks throng the waves, and tempests load the
breeze: Go, search the shores of History—mark there The Oppressor's lot, the Tyrant's destinies :
Behold the Wrecks of Ages ; and despair !
THE ROCK OF CASHEL.
ROYAL and saintly Cashel ! I would gaze
Upon the wreck of thy departed powers
Not in the dewy light of matin hours, Nor the meridian pomp of summer's blaze, But at the close of dim autumnal days, When the sun's parting glance, through slanting
showers, Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and
towers Such awful gleams as brighten o'er Decay's Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks, There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless
On the lone traveller's heart, amid the piles