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Like sibyls of the future; they have power-
COMMUNION WITH NATURE.
- Who, when naught is heard around
MEMORY THERE 's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day
long; In the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet
dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its roses I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think,-is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly
they shone, And a dew was distillid from the flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was
gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year, Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.
A CHURCHYARD SCENE.
Such is the scene around me now:
With what a pensive beauty fall
COME, take thy stand upon this gentle ridge,
Which overlooks yon sweet secluded vale; Before us is a rude and rustic bridge,
A simple plank; and by its side a rail On either hand, to guide the footsteps frail
Of first or second childhood : while below The murmuring brooklet tells its babbling tale,
Like a sweet under-song, which in its flow It chanteth to the flowers that on its margin grow.
For many a flow'ret blossoms there to bless
The gentle loveliness whose charms imbue Its border ;-strawberry of the wilderness;
The star-like daisy ; violet brightly blue; Pale Primrose, in whose cup the pearly dew
Glistens till noontide's languid, listless hour; And last of all, and sweetest to the view,
The lily of the vale, whose virgin flower Trembles at every breeze within its leafy bower,
Now glance thine eye along the streamlet's banks
Up through yon quiet valley; thou wilt trace Above, the giant mountains in their ranks,
Of bald and varied outline; little space Below their summits, far above their base
Umbrageous woods: and last of all, thine eye Will rest on many an humble dwelling-place
Of happy human beings; and descry The lowly temple where they worship the Most
How quietly it stands within the bound
Of its low wall of gray and mossy stone! And like a shepherd's peaceful flock around Its guardian gather'd,-graves, or tombstones
Make their last narrow resting-places known,
Who, living, loved it as a holy spot;
By wishing here to sleep when life was not,
It is a bright and balmy afternoon,
Approaching unto eventide ; and all
Or hum of bees, or lone wood-pigeon's call,
Which feathers, half-way up, each hill's steep side: Dost thou not feel such landscape's soothing thrall;
And wish, if not within its bowers t' abide, At least to explore its haunts, and know what joys
Nor need'st thou wish a truer luxury
Than in its depths, delighted, thou might'st share; I will not say that naught of agony,
Blest as it is, at times may harbour there, For man is born to suffer and to bear :
But could I go with thee, from cot to cot, And show thee how this valley's inmates fare,
Thou mightst confess, to live in such a spot, And die there in old age, were no unlovely lot.
CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,