And lo! beneath the shattered lid,
The Flower of Benallay.
But life gleams from those opening eyes,
Blood thrills that lifted hand:
And awful words are in her cries,
Which none may understand.
Joy! 't is the miracle of yore,
Of the city calléd Nain:
Lo! glad feet throng the sculptured floor,
To hail their dead again.
Joy in the hall of Benallay,
A stately feast is spread:
Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay,
The bride the arisen dead.
BENHALL! although I have not lately sought,
As I had purposed, thy delightful shades,
Their charms survive; and oft by memory's aids,
In living beauty are before me brought.
No breeze that sweeps their flowers with perfume fraught;
Nor sun, nor moon-beam, whose soft light pervades The coy recesses of thy loveliest glades,
Sweeter, or fairer, than thou art to thought!
Yet not thy scenery only thus endears
Rich art thou in the lore of long-past years,
The songs of bards, whose brows by fame are twined
With deathless bays; and, worthy such compeers,
A poet of thy own, of taste refined.
we dwelt our name is heard no
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'T is now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
WRITTEN IN THE PORCH OF BINSTEAD CHURCH, ISLE OF
AREWELL, sweet Binstead! take a fond farewell
From one unused to sight of woods and seas.
Amid the strife of cities doomed to dwell,
Yet roused to ecstasy by scenes like these,
Who could forever sit beneath thy trees,
Inhaling fragrance from the flowery dell;
Or, listening to the murmur of the breeze,
Gaze with delight on Ocean's awful swell.
Again farewell! nor deem that I profane
Thy sacred porch; for while the Sabbath strain
May fail to turn the sinner from his ways,
These are impressions none can feel in vain,
These are the wonders that perforce must raise
The soul to God, in reverential praise.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring antiquarians search the ground
Upturned with curious pains, the bard, a seer,
Takes fire, the men that have been reappear;
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned;
And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned,
In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear,
As if its hues were of the passing year,
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins,
Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil;
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
Of tenderness,—the wolf, whose suckling twins
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.
HIS height a ministering angel might select:
For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands: - low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
To the southwest, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eyesight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde :
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth,
Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial station's western base,
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
Far into silent regions blue and pale;
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle,
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly.
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak
Her habitable shores, but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator's feet. - Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? or there
Do we behold the line of Erin's coast?
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain
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