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The sage's and the poet's theme,
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
That very law* which moulds a tear,
TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.
Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor?
Aëris et linguæ sum filia;
Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.-AUSONIUS.
ONCE more, Enchantress of the soul,
*The law of gravitation.
Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Or in the wilds of Ether lost.
Far happier thou! 'twas thine to soar,
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore?
No tract of space, no distant star,
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire
And nursed thy infant years with
many a strain
* Mrs. Sheridan's.
THE BOY OF EGREMOND.
"SAY what remains when Hope is fled ?"
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
In tartan clad and forest-green,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
* In the twelfth century, William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David King of Scotland.
He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See WHITAKER'S Hist of Craven.
Blithe was his song, a song, of yore;
But where the rock is rent in two,
His voice was heard no more!
'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed;
As through the mist he winged his way,
That narrow place of noise and strife
There now the matin-bell is rung;
The "Miserere!" duly sung ;
Are wandering up and down the wood.
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled
When red with blood the river rolled.
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise;
Nor fly, till morning thro' the shutter streams,
And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.