And there the new-born river lies
Outspread beneath its native skies,
As if it there would love to dwell
Alone and unapproachable.

THE SEA.

How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst
Embraced in emerald glory.

IMPULSE.

AND happy they who thus in faith obey
Their better nature: err sometimes they may,
And some sad thoughts lie heavy in the breast;
Such as, by Hope deceived, are left behind;
But like a shadow these will pass away
From the pure sunshine of the peaceful mind.

FREEDOM OF THE WILL.

IDLY, rajah, dost thou reason thus
Of destiny! for though all other things
Were subject to the starry influences,
And bowed submissive to thy tyranny,

The virtuous heart and resolute mind are free.
Thus, in their wisdom did the gods decree,
When they created man. Let come what will,
This is our rock of strength in every ill.

THE EBB-TIDE.

SLOWLY the flowing tide

Came in, old Avon! Scarcely did mine eyes,
As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood side,
Perceive its gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong

The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars; Yet little way they made, though labouring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide

The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along ;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks that lay

So silent late the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way
Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon, I gaze and know

The lesson emblemed in thy varying way;
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms which long have stood

And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood, They ebb to ruin fast.

Thus like thy flow appears

Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage.
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear:

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand

Hath met thy friendly grasp;

The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy friend beloved;

The spirit is not there.

Often together have we talked of death;
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;

How sweet it were, with powers
Such as the Cherubim,

To view the depth of heaven!

O Edmund! thou hast first begun the travel of
Eternity!

I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,

To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure.
Edmund! we did not err!

Our best affections here

They are not like the toys of infancy;
The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off:

Oh, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy friend beloved;

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And, though remembrance wake a tear,

There will be joy in grief.

INSCRIPTION.

FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.

ENTER this cavern, stranger! Here, awhile
Respiring from the long and steep ascent,
Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too
Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun
Sheltered beneath this beetling vault of rock.

Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms,
The antique ivy spreads a canopy,

From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect
In autumn their last store. The muses love
This spot; believe a poet who hath felt
Their visitation here. The tide below,
Rising or refluent, scarcely sends its sound
Of waters up; and from the heights beyond,
Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways,
Varying before the wind its verdant hues,
The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel
How good, how lovely, Nature! And when, hence
Returning to the city's crowded streets,

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect
That man creates the evil he endures.

FROM THE ROSE.

NAY, Edith! spare the rose : perhaps it lives,
And feels the noontide sun, and drinks refreshed
The dews of night. Let not thy gentle hand
Tear its life-strings asunder and destroy
The sense of being!

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

SWEET to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky;
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller.

The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noon-tide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him

A soothing melody.

And when the evening light decays,

And all is calm around,

There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound,