CLXXXII.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, 1802-1839.

TIME'S SONG.

'ER the level plains, where mountains greet me as I

O'

go,

O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,-I have crushed his

spear;

Grief within her bower was weeping,—I have dried her

tear;

Pleasure caught a minute's hold,—then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame? Genius said 'I live in story:' who hath heard his name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered 'Why so fast?' And the roses on his brow withered as I past.

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; Where began my wanderings? Memory will not say ! Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!

CLXXXIII.

G

FUIMUS!

O to the once loved bowers;

Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair : Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,— They were !

Look for the domes of kings;

Lo! the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair;

Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings
They were!

Waken the minstrel's lute;

Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air :
The chords are broken, and the lips are mute ;-
They were !

Visit the great and brave;

Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair.

Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave ?—
They were!

Speak to thine own heart; prove

The secrets of thy nature. What is there?

Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, fond love,—
They were !

We too, we too must fall;

A few brief years to labour and to bear ;—

Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale,
'We were !'

CLXXXIV.

THOMAS LOVEll Beddoes,

WOLFRAM'S DIRGE.

IF thou wilt ease thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep;

And not a sorrow

1803-1849.

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;

Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes

The rim o' the sun to-morrow,

In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;

'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And then alone, amid the beaming

Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her

In eastern sky.

CLXXXV.

SONG.

A

HO! A ho!

Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,
And bright as midnight's brightest eyes,
And round his starry way

The swan-winged horses of the skies,
With summer's music in their manes,
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,
And urge their graceful play.

A ho! A ho!

Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

The sparrows flutter round his wrist,

The feathery thieves that Venus kissed
And taught their morning song,

The linnets seek the airy list,

And swallows too, small pets of spring,

Beat back the gale with swifter wing,
And dart and wheel along.