WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY,

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

she frays;

E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,

While with quaint arts, the giddy crowd she sways, Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne!

Such freedom crowns it at an inn,

fly from pomp, I fly from plate, I fly from Falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win;

It buys what courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Where' er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an inn.

SONNET TO SLEEP.

COME, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low!

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease

Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw:

O make me in those civil wars to cease!

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;

A rosy garland, and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

BODY.

COMPANION dear! the hour draws nigh;

The sentence speeds -to die, to die.
So long in mystic union held,
So close with strong embrace com-
pelled,

How canst thou bear the dread decree,

That strikes thy clasping nerves from me?

To Him who on this mortal shore,
The same encircling vestment wore,
To Him I look, to Him I bend,
To Him thy shuddering frame com-
mend,

If I have ever caused thee pain,
The throbbing breast, the burning
brain,

With cares and vigils turned thee pale,

And scorned thee when thy strength did fail

trust,

I blame thee not, the strife is done,
Or bow my drooping wing to dust
I knew thou wert the weaker one,
The vase of earth, the trembling clod,
Constrained to hold the breath of
God.

-Well hast thou in my service wrought;

Thy brow hath mirrored forth my thought,

To wear my smile thy lip hath glowed, Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed; Thine car hath borne me rich supOf sweetly varied melodies; plies Thy hands my prompted deeds have done,

Thy feet upon mine errands run; Yes, thou hast marked my bidding well,

Faithful and true! farewell, farewell!

Meek mother Earth with flowers

Oh, quit thy hold, For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, And long thy gasp and groan of pain Have bound me pitying in thy chain, Though angels urge me hence to soar, Where I shall share thine ills no more. Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain

Remember we shall meet again. Quell with this hope the victor's sting,

And keep it as a signet-ring, When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast,

And nought but ashes mark thy rest, When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark,

And proud suns quench their glowworm spark,

Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom,

Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. -Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair,

Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear,
And I, with hovering wing elate,
The bursting of thy bonds shall wait,
And breathe the welcome of the sky-
"No more to part, no more to die,
Co-heir of Immortality.''

the toil

Pursued for such false barter ends in shame,

As certainly as that which seeks but spoil!

Best recompense he finds, who, to his task

Brings a proud, patient spirit that will wait,

soothe the ear,

When common sounds have vexed it. When the day

Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way,

And working in thy soul much coil and care,

Betake thee to the forests. In the shade

NOT profitless the game, even when we lose,

Nor wanting in reward the thankless toil;

The wild adventure that the man pursues,

Requites him, though he gather not the spoil:

Strength follows labor, and its exercise

Brings independence, fearlessness of ill,

Courage and pride,--all attributes we prize;

Though their fruits fail, not the less precious still.

Though fame withholds the trophy of desire,

And men deny, and the impatient throng

Grow heedless, and the strains protracted, tire;

Not wholly vain the minstrel and the song,

If, striving to arouse one heavenly

tone

In others' hearts, it wakens up his

own.

And this, methinks, were no unseemly boast,

In him who thus records the experience

Rise

though he reap no honors,— what though death

terrible between him and the wreath,

That had been his reward, ere, in the dust,

He too is dust; yet hath he in his heart,

The happiest consciousness of what is just,

Sweet, true, and beautiful,-—which will not part

[faith, From his possession. In this happy He knows that life is lovely, that

all things

Are sacred; that the air is full of wings

Bent heavenward,- and that bliss is born of scath!