O ye, who patiently explore

The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture! could ye seize Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted scroll Of pure Simonides.

That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth

Of Genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!

THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED.*

"Tis gone with old belief and dream That round it clung, and tempting scheme Released from fear and doubt;

And the bright landscape too must lie,
By this blank wall from every eye
Relentlessly shut out.

Bear witness ye who seldom passed
That opening but a look ye cast

Upon the lake below,

What spirit-stirring power it gained
From faith which here was entertained,

Though reason might say no.

Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs Of history, Glory claps her wings,

Fame sheds the exulting tear; Yet earth is wide, and many a nook Unheard of is, like this, a book

For modest meanings dear. It was in sooth a happy thought That grafted, on so fair a spot,

So confident a token

Of coming good; - the charm is fled;
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,

Which one harsh day has broken.
Alas! for him who gave the word;
Could he no sympathy afford,

Derived from earth or heaven, To hearts so oft by hope betrayed; Their very wishes wanted aid

Which here was freely given? Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, Will now so readily be found

A balm of expectation?

Anxious for far-off children, where
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air
Of home-felt consolation?

See ante, p. 399.

Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening, where it hung, walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found, with much delight, my old favourite unmolested.

And not unfelt will prove the loss 'Mid trivial care and petty cross

And each day's shallow grief; Though the most easily beguiled Were oft among the first that smiled At their own fond belief.

If still the reckless change we mourn, A reconciling thought may turn

To harm that might lurk here, Ere judgment prompted from within Fit aims, with courage to begin, And strength to persevere.

Not Fortune's slave is man: our state Enjoins, while firm resolves await

On wishes just and wise,
That strenuous action follow both,
And life be one perpetual growth
Of heaven-ward enterprise.

So taught, so trained, we boldly face
All accidents of time and place;

Whatever props may fail,
Trust in that sovereign law can spread
New glory o'er the mountain's head,
Fresh beauty through the vale.
That truth informing mind and heart,
The simplest cottager may part,

Ungrieved with charm and spell; And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee The voice of grateful memory

Shall bid a kind farewell!

DION.*

(SEE PLUTARCH.) 1.

FAIR is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing
O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,
Bears him on while proudly sailing
He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake:
Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve;
An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings
Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs
To which, on some unruffled morning, clings
A flaky weight of winter's purest snows!
|— Behold ! — as with a gushing impulse heaves
That downy prow, and softly cleaves
The mirror of the crystal flood,

Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood,

[* In the later editions, the opening stanza (down to the 20th line) has been removed to the notes, with the following explanation from the author:-" This poem began with the following stanza which has been displaced on account of its detaining the reader too long from the subject, and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect of the allusion to the genius of Plato." It is a remarkable instance of the comparative sacrifice of a passage of great beauty to the Poet's dutiful regard for the principles of his Art.-H. R.]

And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state,
Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate
Or Rival, save the Queen of Night
Showering down a silver light,

From heaven, upon her chosen favourite!

2.

So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a natural grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.

Nor less the homage that was seen to wait
On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere;
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,

Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate.

3.

spear

Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day!
Each crowned with flowers, and armed with
shield,
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,
To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on? - The anxious People see
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear
The Gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those Strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand,
Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine
In seemly order stand,

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades: For him who to divinity aspired,

Not on the breath of popular applause,

But through dependence on the sacred laws
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,
Intent to trace the ideal path of right

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars)

Which Dion learned to measure with delight;

But he hath overleaped the eternal bars;

And, following guides whose craft holds no consent
With aught that breathes the ethereal element,
Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,
Unjustly shed, though for the public good.
Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;

And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go;

But whence that sudden check? that fearful start!
He hears an uncouth sound

Anon his lifted eyes

Your Minister would brush away

The spots that to my soul adhere;

But should she labour night and day,

They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations, and that look
Which no Philosophy can brook!

7.

all-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,
Pursue thee with their deadly aim!
O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade,
Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shudder'd the walls the marble city wept-
And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept,
As he had fallen, in magnanimity :
Of spirit too capacious to require

That Destiny her course should change; too just
To his own native greatness to desire

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.
Released from life and cares of princely state,
He left this moral grafted on his Fate,
"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends,
Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."

PRESENTIMENTS.

PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;

All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense, and, being such,
Such privilege ye claim.

The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;
And now, unforced by Time to part
With Fancy, I obey my heart,

And venture on your praise.

What though some busy Foes to good, Too potent over nerve and blood,

Lurk near you, and combine To taint the health which ye infuse, This hides not from the moral Muse Your origin divine.

How oft from you, derided Powers!
Comes Faith that in auspicious hours
Builds castles, not of air;
Bodings unsanctioned by the will
Flow from your visionary skill,
And teach us to beware.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift,

Shall vanish, if ye please, Like morning mist; and, where it lay, The spirits at your bidding play In gaiety and ease.

Star-guided Contemplations move
Through space, though calm, not raised above
Prognostics that ye rule;

The naked Indian of the Wild,
And haply, too, the cradled Child,
Are pupils of your school.

But who can fathom your intents, Number their signs or instruments? A rainbow, a sunbeam,

A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, An echo, or a dream.

The laughter of the Christmas hearth With sighs of self-exhausted mirth

Ye feelingly reprove;

And daily, in the conscious breast,
Your visitations are a test

And exercise of love.

When some great change gives boundless scope To an exulting Nation's hope,

Oft, startled and made wise

By your low-breathed interpretings,
The simply-meek foretaste the springs

Of bitter contraries.

Ye daunt the proud array of War,
Pervade the lonely Ocean far

As sail hath been unfurled;
For Dancers in the festive hall
What ghastly Partners hath your call
Fetched from the shadowy world!

"Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, Emboldened by a keener sense;

That men have lived for whom, With dread precision, ye made clear The hour that in a distant year

Should knell them to the tomb.

Unwelcome Insight! Yet there are
Blest times when mystery is laid bare,
Truth shows a glorious face,
While on that Isthmus which commands
The councils of both worlds she stands,
Sage Spirits! by your grace.

God, who instructs the Brutes to scent All changes of the element,

Whose wisdom fixed the scale Of Natures, for our wants provides By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, When lights of Reason fail.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF
NOVEMBER 5, 1834.

LADY! a Pen, perhaps, with thy regard,
Among the Favoured, favoured not the least,
Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed,
Deliberate traces, registers of thought
And feeling, suited to the place and time

Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine,
The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise,
Checked, in the moment of its issue checked;
And reprehended by a fancied blush
From the pure qualities that called it forth.

Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's meed,
Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil

That, while it only spreads a softening charm
O'er features looked at by discerning eyes,
Hides half their beauty from the common gaze,
And thus, even on the exposed and breezy hill
Of lofty station, female goodness walks,
When side by side with lunar gentleness,
As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor
(Such the immunities of low estate,
Plain Nature's enviable privilege,
Her sacred recompense for many wants)
Open their hearts before Thee, pouring cut
All that they think and feel, with tears of joy;
And benedictions not unheard in Heaven:
And friend in the ear of friend, where speech is free
To follow truth, is eloquent as they.

this hand,

That had not been too timid to imprint

Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired,
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee.
And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth
The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself.
Flowers are there many that delight to strive
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower,
Yet are by nature careless of the sun
Whether he shine on them or not; and some,
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky,
Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams:
Others do rather from their notice shrink,
Loving the dewy shade, — a humble Band,
Modest and sweet, a Progeny of earth,
Congenial with thy mind and character,
High-born Augusta!

Towers, and stately Groves, Bear witness for me; thou, too, Mountain-stream! From thy most secret haunts; and ye Parterres, Which she is pleased and proud to call her own; Witness how oft upon my noble Friend Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense Of admiration and respectful love, Have waited, till the affections could no more Endure that silence, and broke out in song; Snatches of music taken up and dropt Like those self-solacing, those under-notes Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves

A just memorial; and thine eyes consent

To read that they, who mark thy course, behold

A life declining with the golden light

Of summer, in the season of sere leaves;
See cheerfulness undamped by stealing Time;
See studied kindness flow with easy stream,
Illustrated with inborn courtesy ;
And an habitual disregard of self
Balanced by vigilance for others' weal.

And shall the verse not tell of lighter gifts
With these ennobling attributes conjoined
And blended, in peculiar harmony,

By Youth's surviving spirit? What agile grace!
A nymph-like liberty, in nymph-like form,
Beheld with wonder; whether floor or path
Thou tread, or on the managed steed art borne,
Fleet as the shadows, over down or field,
Driven by strong winds at play among the clouds

Yet one word more -one farewell word-
-a wish
Which came, but it has passed into a prayer,
That, as thy sun in brightness is declining,
So, at an hour yet distant for their sakes
Whose tender love, here faltering on the way
Of a diviner love, will be forgiven, -
So may it set in peace, to rise again
For everlasting glory won by faith.

POOR ROBIN.*

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on to welcome spring their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers or a richer produce (did it suit

The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.

But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show
Bright colours whether they deceive or no? —
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,

Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:

Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,

Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompense is kept in store or left

For all that seem neglected or bereft :

With what nice care equivalents are given,
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.

Murch, 1840.

TO A REDBREAST―(IN SICKNESS).
STAY, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.

Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song;

A charm, that thought can not destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.

Methinks that in my dying hour

Thy song would still be dear,

And with a more than earthly power My passing spirit cheer.

The small wild Geranium known by that name.

Then, little Bird, this boon confer,

Come, and my requiem sing,

Nor fail to be the harbinger

Of everlasting spring.-S. H.

FLOATING ISLAND.*

These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, &c. published heretofore along with my Poems. The above to a Red breast are by a deceased female relative.

HARMONIOUS Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake and sea;
Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze,
All in one duteous task agree.

Once did I see a slip of earth

(By throbbing waves long undermined)
Loosed from its hold; how, no one knew,
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind,
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered, float upon the Lake,
Float with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety, there they find;
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives, and die;
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.

And thus through many seasons' space
This little Island may survive;
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away, may cease to give.

Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day,

Without an object, hope, or fear,

Thither your eyes may turn-the Isle is passed away;

Buried beneath the glittering Lake,

Its place no longer to be found;

Yet the lost fragments shall remain

To fertilize some other ground.-D. W.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM.

BEHOLD an emblem of our human mind

Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home, Yet, like to eddying balls of foam

Within this whirlpool, they each other chase

Round and round, and neither find

An outlet nor a resting place!
Stranger, if such disquietude be thine,

Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine.

[* See Southey's Life and Correspondence, Vol. III.. p. 154, Ch. xiv., for an account of the Floating Island o Derwentwater, in a letter from Southey to Mr. Rickman -H. R.]