THE VISION OF LIFE.

DEATH and I

On a hill so high

Stood side by side,

And we saw below,
Running to and fro,

All things that be in the world so wide.

Ten thousand cries
From the gulf did rise,

With a wild, discordant sound;
Laughter and wailing,
Prayer and railing,

As the ball spun round and round.

And over all
Hung a floating pall

Of dark and gory veils:

"Tis the blood of years, And the sighs and tears Which this noisome marsh exhales.

All this did seem

Like a fearful dream,

Till Death cried, with a joyful cry:
"Look down! look down!

It is all mine own,
Here comes life's pageant by!"

Like to a masque in ancient revelries,
With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,
They came along, and still they came along!
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e'er
Peopled the earth or plough'd the unfathom'd deep,
All that now breathe the universal air,

And all that in the womb of time yet sleep.

Before this mighty host a woman came,
With hurried feet and oft-averted head;
With accursed light

Her eyes were bright,

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with drops of wo,
As when I last took leave of it and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life's early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last falter'd them o'er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,

With youth's clear, laughing voice of melody. On the wild shore of the eternal deep,

Where we have stray'd so oft, and stood so long Watching the mighty water's conquering sweep, And listening to their loud, triumphant song, At sunny noon. dearest! I'll be with thee;

Not as when last I linger'd on the strand, Tracing our names on the inconstant sand; But in each bright thing that around shall be: My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast, Thou'lt see my hair in its bright showery crest, In its dark rocky depths thou'lt see my eyes, My form shall be the light cloud in the skies, My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright, And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs
The livelong day dost chant that wondrous strain,
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee? Who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note

That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start, And fill'd my weary eyes with the soul's rain.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES is a native of Yorkshire, and was born about the year 1809. On the completion of his education at Cambridge he travelled a considerable time on the Continent, and soon after his return home was elected a member of the House of Commons, for Pontefract. He has voted in Parliament with the Tories, but has won little distinction as a politician.

The poetical works of Mr. MILNES are. Memorials of a Tour in Greece, published in 1831, Poems of Many Years, in 1838, Poetry for the People, in 1840, and Palm Leaves, in 1841. The last volume was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant in 1812 and 1813, and is an attempt to instruct the western world in oriental modes of thought and feeling, by a series of poems in the oriental spirit, not an unsuccessful effort, but one with precedents, both in England and on the Continent. A complete edition of his writings, in four volumes, has recently been published in London by Mr. Moxon. I believe none of them have been reprinted in this country.

LONELY MATURITY.

WHEN from the key-stone of the arch of life
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,—

If then, as well may be, he stand alone,

How will his heart recall the youthful throng, Who leap'd with helping hands from stone to stone, And cheer'd the progress with their choral song! How will sad memory point where, here and there, Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate, From him or from each other parted were,

And love sometimes become the nurse of hate.

Yet at this hour no feelings dark or fierce,
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,-
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.
Rather, he thinks, he held not duly dear

Love, the best gift that man on man bestows, While round his downward path, recluse and drear, He feels the chill, indifferent shadows close.

Old limbs, once broken, hardly knit together,— Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine; Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather; Experience tests and mars the sense divine;

In Leucas, one of his earlier productions, Mr. MILNES discloses his poetical theory. Reproaching SAPPHIO, he says,—

"Poesy, which in chaster pose abides,

As in its atmosphere; that placid flower
Thou hast exposed to passion's fiery tides."

With him poetry is the expression of beauty, not of passion, and no one more fully realizes his own ideal in his works, which are serene and contemplative, and pervaded by a true and genial philosophy. They are unequal, but there is about them that indescribable charm which indicates genuineness of feeling, This is particularly observable in the pieces having reference to the affections. The simplicity of the incidents portrayed, and the seeming artlessness of the diction, sometimes remind us of WORDSWORTH, but there is a point and meaning in his effusions which makes him occasionally superior to the author of the Excursion in pathos, however much he may at times fall below him in philosophical sentiment. He was elected a member for Pontefract in 1837, and was elevated to the peerage in 1863.

Thus now, though ever loth to underprize

Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears, Still worthier seems to his reflective eyes The friendship that sustains maturer years. "Why did I not," his spirit murmurs deep, "At every cost of momentary pride, Preserve the love for which in vain I weep;

Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside? "Oh cruel issue of some selfish thought!

Oh long, long echo of some angry tone! Oh fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught, Alone to linger and to die alone!

"No one again upon my breast to fall,

To name me by my common Christian name,No one in mutual banter to recall

Some youthful folly or some boyish game; "No one with whom to reckon and compare The good we won or miss'd; no one to draw Excuses from past circumstance or care,

And mitigate the world's unreasoning law! "Were I one moment with that presence blest, I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain, I would invade the sou! I once possest. And once for all my ancient love regain!”

THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE.

I HAVE NO Comeliness of frame,
No pleasant range of feature;
I'm feeble, as when first I came

To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;

But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.

The trivial part in life I play

Can have so light a bearing

On other men, who, night or day,

For me are never caring;

That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,

I know that I am tempted less,—
And that is consolation.

The beautiful! the noble blood!
I shrink as they pass by,-
Such power for evil or for good

Is flashing from each eye;

They are indeed the stewards of Heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!
'Tis true, I am hard buffetted,

Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;

But then I think, "had I been born,-
Hot spirit-sturdy frame-
And passion prompt to follow scorn,-
I might have done the same."
To me men are for what they are,
They wear no masks with me;
I never sicken'd at the jar

Of ill-tuned flattery ;

I never mourn'd affections lent

In folly or in blindness;

The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking kindness.

And most of all, I never felt

The agonizing sense

Of seeing love from passion melt

Into indifference;

The fearful shame, that day by day

Burns onward, still to burn,

To have thrown your precious heart away,

And met this black return.

I almost fancy that the more

I am cast out from men,

Nature has made me of her store

A worthier denizen;

As if it pleased her to caress

A plant grown up so wild,

As if the being parentless
Made me the more her child.

Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
I fall into the dewy grass,
And cool my fever'd cheek;

And hear a music strangely made,

That you have never heard,

A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.

My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,―
But yet I always run,

As to a father's morning kiss,

When rises the round sun;

I see the flowers on stalk and stem,
Light shrubs, and poplars tall,
Enjoy the breeze,-I rock with them,—
We're merry brothers all.

I do remember well, when first
I saw the great blue sea,-

It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;

My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow;

I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.

The lamb that at it's mother's sile
Reclines, a tremulous thing,
The robin in cold winter-tide,

The linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,

And love my slender hand,For we are bound, by God's decree, In one defensive band.

And children, who the worldly mind And ways have not put on,

Are ever glad in me to find

A blithe companion:

And when for play they leave their homes, Left to their own sweet glee,

They hear my step, and cry, "He comes,
Our little friend,-'tis he."

Have you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend

Your eyes to one particular light,
Till it became a friend?

And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far

Or more or less, it matter'd not,-
It still was your own star.

Thus, and thus only, can you know,

How I, even scornéd I,

Can live in love, though set so low,

And my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,
The meanest, lornest thing of all-
Still owns its right to love.

With no fair round of household cares
Will my lone heart be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs

Will touch a loving breast;
No darling pledge of spousal faith
Shall I be found possessing.
To whom a blessing with my breath
Would be a double blessing:

But yet my love with sweets is rife,

With happiness it teems,

It beautifies my waking life,

And waits upon my dreams;

A shape that floats upon the night,
Like foam upon the sea,-

A voice of seraphim,-a light
Of present Deity!

I hide me in the dark arcade,

When she walks forth alone,-

I feast upon her hair's rich braid,—
Her half-unclasped zone:

I watch the flittings of her dress,
The bending boughs between,-
I trace her footsteps' faery press,
On the scarcely ruffled green.

Oh deep delight! the frail guitar

Trembles beneath her hand,

She sings a song she brought from far,

I cannot understand;

Her voice is always as from heaven,
But yet I seem to hear

Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.

And then I shall receive my part

Of everlasting treasure,

In that just world where each man's heart Will be his only measure.

ON

GENTLY supported by the ready aid
Of loving hands, whose little work of toil

Her grateful prodigality repaid

With all the benediction of her smile,
She turn'd her failing feet
To the soft pillow'd seat,
Dispensing kindly greetings all the while.
Before the tranquil beauty of her face

I bow'd in spirit, thinking that she were
A suffering angel, whom the special grace
Of God intrusted to our pious care,
That we might learn from her
The art to minister

To heavenly beings in seraphic air.
There seem'd to lie a weight upon her brain,
That ever press'd her blue-vein'd eyelids down,
But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain,
Nor seem her forehead with the faintest frown:
She was as she were proud,
So young, to be allow'd

To follow Him who wore the thorny crown. Nor was she sad, but over every mood,

To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth, Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood, Of quiet gaiety, and serenest mirth; And thus her voice did flow, So beautifully low,

A stream whose music was no thing of earth.

Now long that instrument has ceased to sound,
Now long that gracious form in earth has lain
Tended by nature only, and unwound
Are all those mingled threads of love and pain;
So let me weep and bend

My head, and wait the end,
Knowing that God creates not thus in vain.

PRAYER.

IN reverence will we speak of those that woo The ear Divine with clear and ready prayer; And, while their voices cleave the Sabbath air, Know their bright thoughts are winging heavenward too.

Yet many a one-" the latchet of whose shoe" These might not loose-will often only dare Lay some poor words between him and despair"Father, forgive! we know not what we do."

For, as Christ pray'd, so echoes our weak heart, Yearning the ways of God to vindicate, But worn and wilder'd by the shows of fate, Of good oppress'd and beautiful defiled,

Dim alien force, that draws or holds apart From its dear home that wandering spirit-child.

NOT WHOLLY JUST.

THE words that trembled on your lips
Were utter'd not-I know it well;
The tears that would your eyes eclipse
Were check'd and smother'd ere they fell:
The looks and smiles I gain'd from you

Were little more than others won,
And yet you are not wholly true,

Nor wholly just what you have done.

You know, at least you might have known,
That every little grace you gave,—
Your voice's somewhat lower'd tone,-

Your hand's faint shake or parting wave,Your every sympathetic look

At words that chanced your soul to touch, While reading from some favourite book, Were much to me-alas, how much! You might have seen-perhaps you sawHow all of these were steps of hope On which I rose, in joy and awe,

Up to my passion's lofty scope; How after each, a firmer tread

I planted on the slippery ground,
And higher raised my venturous heal,
And ever new assurance found.

May be, without a further thought,
It only pleased you thus to please,
And thus to kindly feelings wrought

You measured not the sweet degrees;
Yet, though you hardly understood

Where I was following at your call, You might-I dare to say you shouldHave thought how far I had to fall.

And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised,

I SEE the worlds of earth and sky
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye-

I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,-
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.

Round me in rich profusion lie

Nectareous fruits of ancient mind, The thoughts that have no power to die In golden poesy enshrined: And near me hang, of later birth, Ripe clusters from the living tree, But what the pleasure, what the worth If all is savourless to me?

EVIL, every living hour,

Holds us in its wilful hand, Save as thou, essential Power, May'st be gracious to withstand: Pain within the subtle flesh,

Heavy lids that cannot close, Hearts that hope will not refresh,— Hand of healing! interpose.

Tyranny's strong breath is tainting Nature's sweet and vivid air, Nations silently are fainting,

Or up-gather in despair:

Not to those distracted wills

Trust the judgment of their woes;
While the cup of anguish fills,
Arm of Justice! interpose.

Pleasures night and day are hovering
Round their prey of weary hours,
Weakness and unrest discovering
In the best of human powers:
Ere the fond delusions tire,

Ere envenom'd passion grows
From the root of vain desire,—

Mind of Wisdom! interpose.

Now no more in tuneful motion

Life with love and duty glides; Reason's meteor-lighted ocean

Bears us down its mazy tides; Head is clear and hand is strong,

But our heart no haven knows; Sun of Truth! the night is long,Let thy radiance interpose.