He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,
All met as at a holy festival!

-On the day destined for his funeral!

Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay,
Breathed in his drowsy ear "Away, away!

Take thou my cloak-Nay, start not, but obey—
Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid,
Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert strayed;
And, when her dear, dear Father passed along,
Would not be held-but, bursting through the throng,
Halberd and battle-axe-kissed him o'er and o'er;
Then turned and went-then sought him as before,
Believing she should see his face no more!
And oh, how changed at once-no heroine here,
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear,
Her darling Mother! 'Twas but now she smiled;
And now she weeps upon her weeping child!

But who sits by, her only wish below

At length fulfilled-and now prepared to go?
His hands on hers-as through the mists of night,
She gazes on him with imperfect sight;

Her glory now, as ever her delight!

To her, methinks, a second Youth is given;
The light upon her face a light from Heaven!

An hour like this is worth a thousand passed
In pomp or ease-'Tis present to the last!
Years glide away untold-'Tis still the same!
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came!

And now once more where most he loved to be,
In his own fields-breathing tranquillity—
We hail him-not less happy, Fox, than thee
Thee at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled,
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child!

Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray,
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.
How oft from grove to grove,

from seat to seat,

With thee conversing in thy loved retreat,

I saw the sun go down!-Ah, then 'twas thine
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,
Shakspeare's or Dryden's-thro' the chequered shade
Borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed;
And where we sate (and many a halt we made)
To read there with a fervour all thy own,

And in thy grand and melancholy tone,
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown,

Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has tolled!
-But in thy place among us we behold

One who resembles thee.

}

'Tis the sixth hour.

The village-clock strikes from the distant tower.
The ploughman leaves the field; the traveller hears,
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears

Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west

Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest.

And such, his labour done, the calm He knows, Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last;

The light, that shines, reflected from the Past,
-And from the Future too! Active in Thought
Among old books, old friends; and not unsought
By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours,
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers,
He muses, turning up the idle weed;
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead
Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough,
Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

At night, when all, assembling round the fire,
Closer and closer draw till they retire,

A tale is told of India or Japan,

Of merchants from Golconde or Astracan,

}

What time wild Nature revelled unrestrained,
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reigned:-
Of Knights renowned from holy Palestine,
And Minstrels, such as swept the lyre divine,
When Blondel came, and Richard in his Cell*
Heard, as he lay, the song he knew so well:-
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail,
Among the shining Alps of Polar seas
Immoveable-for ever there to freeze!
Or some great Caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell,

In their long march, such as the Prophet bids,
To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids,

And in an instant lost-a hollow wave

Of burning sand their everlasting grave!

Now the scene shifts to Cashmere-to a glade
Where, with her loved gazelle, the dark-eyed Maid
(Her fragrant chamber for awhile resigned,
Her lute, by fits discoursing with the wind)
Wanders well-pleased, what time the Nightingale
Sings to the Rose, rejoicing hill and dale;

Richard the First. For the romantic story here alluded to, we are indebted to the French Chroniclers.-See FAUCHET. Recueil de l'Origine de la Langue et Poësie Fr.

And now to Venice-to a bridge, a square,
Glittering with light, all nations masking there,
With light reflected on the tremulous tide,
Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,

Answering the jest, the song on every side;
To Naples next-and at the crowded gate,
Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait,
Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire,
Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire!—
Then, at a sign that never was forgot,

A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not?)
From harp or organ! 'Tis at parting given,
That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven;
Young voices mingling, as it floats along,

In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song!

And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all;

So soon to weave a daughter's coronal,

And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ;

So soon to hover round her full of fears,

And with assurance sweet her soul revive

In child-birth-when a mother's love is most alive!
No, 'tis not here that Solitude is known.
Through the wide world he only is alone
Who lives not for another. Come what will,
The generous man has his companion still;