The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil
Released and disembodied), there are strains
Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,
Through the probation of revolving years,
And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,
Have purged and purified. To these my soul
Aspireth; and to this sublimer end

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep
With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes
Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes
Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,

And minister strange music, which doth seem
Now near, now distant, now on high, now low,
Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,
And full fruition filling all the soul.

Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe
The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude
Of toil; and but that my fond heart

Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,
When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,
I lay a listless muser, prizing, far
Above all other lore, the poet's theme;
But for such recollections I could brace
My stubborn spirit for the arduous path
Of science unregretting; eye afar
Philosophy upon her steepest height,
And with bold step and resolute attempt
Pursue her to the innermost recess,

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.

THE PROSTITUTE.

DACTYLICS.

WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;

Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,
Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,
While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.

Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite, Spurned by the beings who lured thee from inno

cence,

Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence,

Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness, Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!

Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here;
Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;
None after thee inquires with solicitude;

Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.

Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,
And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave,
Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid

Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent;
But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness,
Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy.

Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down:
But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,

God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?

ODES.

TO MY LYRE.

THOU Simple Lyre! thy music wild
Has served to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guiled,
When even pain has own'd, and smiled,
Its fascinating power.

Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd
Will little heed thy simple tones;
Them mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross, and thou and I must shroud

Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

No hand, thy diapason o'er,

Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;

For me, no academic lore

Has taught the solemn strain to pour,
Or build the polished rhyme.

Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;

The rustic swains believe thy power

Can hush the wild winds when they roar,

And still the billowy main.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep.

I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree.

This little dirge will please me more

Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,
Perhaps from me debarred;
And dear to me the classic zone,

Which, snatched from learning's labour'd throne,
Adorns the accepted bard.

And O! if yet 't were mine to dwell
Where Cam or Isis winds along,
Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste

To listen to my song.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style
I'd change to happier lays,

Oh! then the cloistered glooms should smile,

And through the long, the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.