Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth :
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,
Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner's glance.
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle.
The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,

And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire;
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and grey,
And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far
away-

And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light,
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,
High bounding from billow to billow; each form
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;
With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand,
Fast they ploughed, by the lee-shore of Heligoland,
Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er crossed;
Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed,
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood
To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood-
"We are dead-we are bound from our graves in the west,
First to Hecla, and then to
Unmeet was the rest
For man's ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang,
And their eyes gleamed with phosphorus light as it rang;
Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim,
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and limb.
Now who were those roamers ?-of gallows or wheel
Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel?
No, by magistrates' chains 'mid their grave-clothes you
saw,

They were felons too proud to have perished by law: But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been, 'Twas a badge of their faction, its hue was not green,

Showed them men who had trampled, and tortured, and

driven

To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by Heaven-
Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task,
If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask.
They parted-but not till the sight might discern
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern,
Where letters emblazoned in blood-coloured flame,
Named their faction-I blot not my page with its name.

WHE

SONG.

WHEN Love came first to Earth, the SPRING
Spread rose-beds to receive him,

And back he vowed his flight he'd wing
To heaven, if she should leave him.

But SPRING departing, saw his faith
Pledged to the next new comer-
He revelled in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of SUMMER.

Then sportive AUTUMN claimed by rights
An Archer for her lover,

And even in WINTER'S dark cold nights
A charm he could discover.

Her routs, and balls, and fireside joy,
For this time were his reasons-
In short, Young Love's a gallant boy,
That likes all times and seasons.

FAREWELL TO LOVE.

I HAD a heart that doated once in passion's boundless

And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his

chain;

But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn anew,

I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu ! adieu !

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall, [them all; And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witch

ing sway

Is now to me a star that's fall'n-a dream that's passed

away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,

[soul !

How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit

its shore,

Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought

me o'er.

Why say the Angels feel the flame ?—Oh, spirits of the skies!

Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise ?

[can tell, Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best That peace on earth itself begins when love has bid

farewell.

LINES

On a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney.

AS man e'er doomed that beauty made

WA

By mimic art should haunt him?

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,

And doat upon a phantom.

Thou maid, that in my inmost thought

Art fancifully sainted,

Why liv'st thou not-why art thou nought
But canvas sweetly painted?

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,

Too pure for love of mortals-
As if they drew angelic eyes

To greet thee at heaven's portals.

Yet loveliness has here no grace,
Abstracted or ideal-

Art ne'er but from a living face
Drew looks so seeming real.

What wert thou, maid ?-thy life-thy name
Oblivion hides in mystery;

Though from thy face my heart could frame
A long romantic history.

Transported to thy time I seem,
Though dust thy coffin covers-
And hear the songs, in fancy's dream,
Of thy devoted lovers.

How witching must have been thy breath-
How sweet the living charmer-
Whose very semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!

Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession-
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty;
And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.

FLORINE.

OULD I bring back lost youth again,

Co

And be what I have been,

I'd court you in a gallant strain,

My young and fair Florine.

But mine's the chilling age that chides
Devoted rapture's glow,

And Love-that conquers all besides-
Finds Time a conquering foe.

Farewell we're severed by our fate,
As far as night from noon;

You came into the world too late,
And I depart so soon.