And like the royal bard's, my prayer,
Oh that a dove to course the air,
I with my wings might pierce the sky,
And ever dwell in bliss on high!
Yet midnight comes, and brings repose,
The quire unstrung its echoes close,
I hear no more, that angel lay,
Enough to soul the silent clay.

STANZAS

:

WRITTEN UPON AN OLD CRUSADER IN —

CHURCH, YORKSHIRE.

WITHIN a lone sequestered church, there lies

The sculptured figure of an armed Knight,
His mailed limbs are cross'd_strange Heraldries,

Are on his shield, which he in many a field
With Saracen hath borne. A ponderous sword

Is by his side; what means this war array ? Did battle with his soul so much accord,

That he still hop'd it had not passed away ? I do the warrior wrong! for see, in prayer

His hands are clasp'd upon his stony breast,
And when through ancient windows pictur'd fair,

The colour'd light falls on his scutcheon'd crest
Which hangs upon the wall, engraven there
These words of peace are seen, “IN HEAVEN

IS REST."*

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO OCCUPIED A HAUNTED CHAMBER.

YES! fair one sleep—no care disturbs thy rest,

Thy lovely thoughts are wafted far from earth, Each gentle sigh that heaves thy snowy breast,

'Mong glorious cherubs hath its heavenly birth.

Those eyes of blue that glistened in the dance,

Those coral lips that smiled in joyous glee, Still seem amid this deep, this beauteous trance,

To fill the soul with holiest ecstasy.

And thy bright forehead, arch'd for eagle thought,

Is tranquil, as the marbled front of death, Thy silver throat which chords—tho' ne'er when

sought! Moves faintly with the violet passing breath.

Hark! yes, fair sleeper, thou hast heard it too,

That throb convulsive, and that quivering eye, Which trembling bears its tributary dew,

Speaks of some shuddering evil lurking nigh.

Is it a hideous demon come to grieve

Thy budding heart just opening into life? As once fell Satan came to tender Eve,

E’er her young bosom dreamt of this world's strife?

Be hush’d! sweet listener, dread not needless woes,

'Tis neither voice of goblin nor of man, Droop softly down again like folding rose, 'Tis but the moaning of A CHIMNEY CAN!

STUART MACGOUN.

LINES

ON THE ILIAD.

HEAVENS! how with fire my burning bosom glows,
And my whole soul with frenzied fury flows,
When thou, Bellona! rul'st the living page,
And gods immortal, war with mortals wage;
When bloody discord rears her snaky head,
And rage and havoc general ruin spread ;
When conquering shouts with groans expiring rise,
And the whole field in glorious chaos lies.
No private feuds the warring hosts employ,
The cause of nature, is the cause of Troy;
'Gainst the whole race, heaven's awful bolts are

hurled, And falling Nium seems a falling world ; But ah! when themes more gentle claim his cares,

The poet's strain an altered aspect wears ;
No more equipp'd with bold impetuous wings,
The weeping Muse in dying numbers sings;
Her eagle flight, and strains sublime foregoes,
To tune a parent's or a lover's woes ;
When sad Andromache the verse inspires,