Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair;

And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day,

When the sun and the world have dyed away, When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!"

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, So far surpassing Nature's law,

The singer's voice wad sink away

And the string of his harp wad cease to play.
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by,
And all was love and harmony;

Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,

Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day.

Then Kilmeny begged again to see

The friends she had left in her own countrye,

To tell of the place where she had been,
And the glories that lay in the land unseen;

To warn the living maidens fair,

The loved of Heaven, the spirit's care,

That all whose minds unmeled remain
Shall bloom in beauty when Time is gane.

With distant music, soft and deep,
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;

And when she awakened, she lay her lane,

All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene.
When seven lang years had come and fled,

When grief was calm, and hope was dead,
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name,

Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!
And her beauty was fair to see,

But still and steadfast was her ee;

Such beauty bard may never declare,

For there was no pride nor passion there;

And the soft desire of maiden's een,

In that mild face could never be seen.

Her seymar was the lily flower,

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;

And her voice like the distant melodye,

That floats along the twilight sea.

But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keeped afar frae the haunts of men,
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,

To suck the flowers and drink the spring.
But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
The wild beasts of the hills were cheered;
The wolf played blythely round the field,
The lordly byson lowed and kneeled,
The dun deer wooed with manner bland,
And cowered aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstacy of sweet devotion,

Oh! then the glen was all in motion!
The wild beasts of the forest came,

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,
And goved around, charmed and amazed;
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,

And murmured, and looked with anxious pain,
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;

The wolf and the kid their raike began,

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;

The hawk and the hern attour them hung,

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:

It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and gane,

Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;
There laid her down on the leaves sae green,
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen!
But O, the words that fell from her mouth,
Were words of wonder, and words of truth!
But all the land were in fear and dread,

For they kend na whether she was living or dead.

It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain;

She left this world of sorrow and pain,
And returned to the land of thought again.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams:

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and upbuild it again.

MODERATE MOVEMENT.

PALM SUNDAY.

(ADDRESS TO POETS.)

Ye whose hearts are beating high

With the pulse of Poesy,

Heirs of more than royal race,

Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,

(If the word be not too bold,)
Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old

Sovereign masters of our hearts!
Know ye who hath set your parts?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you, to lead

His Hosannas here below;

Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and wo.

But if ye should hold your peace,

Deem not that the song would cease

Angels round His glory-throne,

Stars, His guiding hand that own,

Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,

John Keble.

Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest,

High and low in choir shall meet,

Ere His name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue

Be Thy praise so duly sung,

That Thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here;