Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn
Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd
The light of soul, and half-reveal'd.
While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,
Such summer-clouds as travel light,
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awok'st, then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in extacy!

And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
Nature has breath'd into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace;
A spirit that lies never still,
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will.
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake
Soft airs a gentle rippling make,
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly,
And water blends again with sky.

Oh! happy sprite! didst thou but know
What pleasures through my being flow
From thy soft eyes, a holier feeling
From their blue light could ne'er be stealing,
But thou wouldst be more loth to part,
And give me more of that glad heart!
Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence
The glory of thý innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air
That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live for ever!

SONNET S.
I.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER,

DURING A STORM.

There is a lake hid far among the hills,
That raves around the throne of solitude,
Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,
But headlong cataract and rushing flood.
There gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood,
No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side;
For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood,
And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's
pride.

If thou art one, in dark presumption blind,
Who vainly deemst no spirit like to thine,
That lofty genius deifies thy mind,
Fall prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine,
And as the thunderous scene disturbs thy
heart,

Lift thy changed eye, and own how low

thou art.

II.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER,
DURING A CALM.

Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,
Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,
Where poets fear their self-created forms,
Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?
Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud
| With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?
Wondrous,oh Nature! is thy sovereign power,
That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth;
For here might beauty build her summer-
bower!

Lo! where yon rainbow spans the smiling
earth,

And, clothed in glory,through a silent shower
The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth;
While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake
Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!

III.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON HELM-CRAG.

Go up among the mountains, when the storm
Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,
When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,
And through the haunted air each giant form
Of swinging pine,black rock,or ghostly cloud,
That veils some fearful cataract tumbling
loud,

Seems to thy breathless heart with life
embued.

'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!

The mind exists, thinks, trembles through
the ear,

The memory of the human world is gone,
And time and space seem living only here.
Oh! worship thou the visions then made
known,

While sable glooms round Nature's temple
roll,

And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.

IV.

THE EVENING-CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest:
While every breath of eve that chanced to
blow,

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is
given;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

EXTRACTS FROM THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE.

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling hair.

Oft breathed across the brightest intellect. Sic silence sic lonesomeness, oh, were

But two days past, our ready laughter chased
His various stories; and it cannot be
That we have in our gamesome revelries
Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair I met nae bright

But the foam in the silence o' nature was | And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould

fa'ing,

Sic thoughts wet my een- as the moonshine
was beaming
On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent

and white;
The wan ghastly light on the dial was
streaming,
But the still finger tauld not the hour of
the night.

The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,

I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Ower a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,

And Heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on— but nae kirk-bell was ringing,

Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm-tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and

sae shrill.

I look'd ower the quiet o' Death's empty dwelling,

The lav'rock walk'd mute 'mid the rowful scene,

were swelling Ower the kirk-yard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;

The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;

At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter
is over,
And birds should be glinting ower forest
and lea,
When the lint-white and mavis the yellow
leaves cover,

And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap
o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,
And laughs back to heaven with gratitude
bright,
To hearken! and naewhere hear sweet human
voices!
When man's soul is dark in the season o'
light!

Master of Revels. We thank thee, sweet
one! for thy mournful song.

It seems, in the olden time, this very Plague
Visited thy hills and valleys, and the voice
Of lamentation wail'd along the streams
That now flow on through their wild para-
dise,

Murmuring their songs of joy. All that

survive

In memory of that melancholy year,
When died so many brave and beautiful,
Are some sweet mournful airs, some shep-
herd's lay

Most touching in simplicity, and none
Fitter to make one sad amid his mirth
Than the tune yet faintly singing through
our souls.

Mary Gray. O! that I ne'er had sung it
but at home

Unto my aged parents! to whose ear
Their Mary's tones were always musical
I hear my own self singing o'er the moor,
Beside my native cottage,-most unlike
The voice which Edward Walsingham has
praised,

It is the angel-voice of innocence,

2d Woman. I thought this cant were out
of fashion now.

But it is well; there are some simple souls,
Even yet, who melt at a frail maiden's tears.
And give her credit for sincerity.

sor-She thinks her eyes quite killing while she

weeps.