Of endless glory and perennial bays. As of the train of ages-when, alas! Too trivial for account. O, it is strange, Preaches the solemn lesson. He should know Of the gigantic pyramid? or who Reared its huge walls? Oblivion laughs and says The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, Their memory burst its fetters. KIRKE WHITE. THE STORMY PETREL. A THOUSAND miles from land are we, H The mighty cables and iron chains, The hull which all earthly strength disdains, They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone, Up and down! up and down! From the base of the wave to the billows crown, Amidst the flashing and feathery foam, A home-if such a place can be For her who lives on the wide wide sea, And only seeking her rocky lair To warn her young, and teach them to spring, At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing! O'er the deep! o'er the deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep! Outflying the blast, and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale in vain : For the mariner curseth the warning bird, Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing. BARRY CORNWALL. THE LINDEN TREE. HERE'S a song for thee-of the linden tree! A song of the silken lime! There is no other tree so pleaseth me, No other so fit for rhyme. When I was a boy, it was all my joy To rest in its scented shade, When the sun was high, and the river nigh When, floating along, like a winged song, And choose for his bower the lime-tree flower, When the evening star stole forth, afar, Ah! years have fled; and the linden, dead, And the river creeps through its slimy deeps, Yet they live again, in the dreamer's brain: Which pass with a sigh, and seem to die, Survive in the poet's song. BARRY CORNWALL. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. O THOU vast ocean! ever-sounding sea! Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change Give answer to the tempest-waken air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Ween, and flowers sicken when the summer flies. And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, And lovely in repose: thy summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach"Eternity, eternity, and power." BARRY CORNWALL. THE LAKE OF GENEVA. CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, To waft me from distraction; once I loved That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, He is an evening reveller, who makes |