FROM "TO A LADY WITH A
GUITAR."

THE artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,-
O that such our death may be!-
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath heaven's fair-

est star,

The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;

The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing
dew,

And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way,-
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,

And fury uncontrolled, and chastise

ment unkind.

And, if neglect had lavished on the ground

Fragments of bread, she would

collect the same,

For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,

est crumb she found.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's de

cent eve,

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,

But in her garden found a summer seat;

Sweet melody to hear her then repeat

How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,

While taunting foemen did a song entreat,

All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres- small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,

And passed much time in truly virtuous deed;

And, in those elfins' ears, would

oft deplore

The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed:

And tortuous death was true devotion's meed;

And simple Faith in iron chains did

mourn,

That nould on wooden image place her creed;

And lawnly saints in smouldering flames did burn:

One ancient hen she took delight to feed:

Ah!

The plodding pattern of the busy dame:

dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should ere return.

miss to raise;

Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,

And some entice with pittance small of praise;

And other some with baleful sprig

she frays;

E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,

While with quaint arts, the giddy

crowd she sways, Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom, I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne!

Such freedom crowns it at an inn, fly from pomp, I fly from plate, Freedom I love, and form I hate, I fly from Falsehood's specious grin;

And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win;

It buys what courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an inn.

BODY.

COMPANION dear! the hour draws nigh;

The sentence speeds to die, to die. So long in mystic union held,

So close with strong embrace compelled,

How canst thou bear the dread decree,

That strikes thy clasping nerves from me?

To Him who on this mortal shore,
The same encircling vestment wore,
To Him I look, to Him I bend,
To Him thy shuddering frame com-
mend,

If I have ever caused thee pain,
The throbbing breast, the burning
brain,

With cares and vigils turned thee pale,

And scorned thee when thy strength did fail

trust,

I blame thee not, the strife is done,
Or bow my drooping wing to dust-
I knew thou wert the weaker one,
The vase of earth, the trembling clod,
Constrained to hold the breath of
God.

-Well hast thou in my service wrought;

Thy brow hath mirrored forth my thought,

To wear my smile thy lip hath glowed, Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed; Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies

Of sweetly varied melodies; Thy hands my prompted deeds have done,

Thy feet upon mine errands run; Yes, thou hast marked my bidding well,

Faithful and true! farewell, farewell!

Go to thy rest. A quiet bed
Meek mother Earth with flowers
shall spread.
Where I no more thy sleep may break
With fevered dream, nor rudely wake
Thy wearied eye.