A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF

SCOTLAND.

ART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep

PART fenced a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies;

The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep

Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen
Level with earth among the hillocks green:
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites
The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring
With jubilate from the choirs of Spring!

OST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

AX not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned-
Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only-this immense

And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loath to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.

HEY dreamt not of a perishable home

THE

Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam:
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath.
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when She hath also seen her breast
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.

LOSING the sacred Book which long has fed
Our meditations, give we to a day

Of annual joy one tributary lay;

This day, when, forth by rustic music led,

The village Children, while the sky is red

With evening lights, advance in long array

Through the still church-yard, each with garland gay,
That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head

Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church-door,
Charged with these offerings which their fathers bore
For decoration in the Papal time,

The innocent procession softly moves:

The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's pure clime,
And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves!

S STAR that shines dependent upon star

Is to the sky while we look up in love,

As to the deep fair ships which though they move Seem fixed to eyes that watch them from afar;

As to the sandy desert fountains are,

With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals,
Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls

Of roving tired or desultory war

Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes,

Each linked to each for kindred services;

Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes
Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among trees,

Where a few villagers on bended knees.
Find solace which a busy world disdains.