"And so, I thought my likeness grew
(Without the melancholy tale)
To gentle hermit of the dale,
And Angelina too!

"For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories! till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,-
And then I shut the book.

"If I shut this wherein I write,
I hear no more the winds athwart
Those trees!-nor feel that childish heart
Delighting in delight!

"My childhood from my life is parted;
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted !

"Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are-
No more for me!-myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse!—

"Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought,
I laughed to myself and thought
The time will pass away!'

“I laughed still, and did not fear
But that, whene'er was past away
The childish time, some happier play
My womanhood would cheer

"I knew the time would pass away-
And yet beside the rose-tree wall,
Dear God!-how seldom, if at all,
I looked up to pray!

"The time is past-and now that grows The cypress high among the trees,

And I behold white sepulchres

As well as the white rose-

"When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,
And I have learnt to lift my face,
Remembering earth's greenest place
The colour draws from heaven-

"It something saith for earthly pain,
But more for heavenly promise free,
That I who was, would shrink to be
That happy child again.”

"Has not love," says Elizabeth in her preface, “a deeper mystery than wisdom, and a more ineffable lustre than power? I believe it has. I venture to believe those beautiful and often-quoted words, God is Love,' to be even less an expression of condescension towards the finite, than an assertion of essential dignity in Him, who is infinite." To illustrate that attribute, she wrote "The Seraphim." But there is nothing in that poem so affecting as the following simple lines. They cannot be read without bringing to mind the sum of all consolation, "Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give ye rest.”

THE SLEEP.

"Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep

Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this-
'He giveth His beloved, sleep?'

"What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved-
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep-
The senate's shout to patriot vows-
The monarch's crown to light the brows?
He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

"What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved-
A little dust, to overweep-
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

"Sleep soft beloved!' we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when
'He giveth His beloved, sleep!'

"O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,
'And giveth His beloved, sleep!'

"His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men toil and reap!
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

'He giveth his beloved, sleep.'

"Yea! men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say-and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard-
'He giveth His beloved, sleep!'

"For me my heart that erst did go

Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the jugglers leap,

Would now its wearied vision close,

Would childlike on His love repose,

Who giveth His beloved, sleep!

"And friends!-dear friends!-when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep-
Let one, most loving of you all,

6

Say, Not a tear must o'er her fall

'He giveth His beloved, sleep!'"

Cowper has found at last the best of biographers in Southey; and Southey-should he see them-and surely he will-though we think he has somewhere said that he seldom reads the verses of the day-will not withhold his

praise from the affecting and beautiful lines on Cowper's grave. Had they been anonymous, we should have attributed them to Caroline Bowles.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

"It is a place where poets crowned
May feel the heart's decaying—
It is a place where happy saints
May weep amid their praying—
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence, languish;
Earth surely now may give her calm
To whom she gave her anguish.

"O poets! from a maniac's tongue

Was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope
A hopeless hand was clinging!
O men! this man, in brotherhood,
Your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace,
And died while ye were smiling!

"And now, what time ye all may read
Through dimming tears his story-
How discord on the music fell,
And darkness on the glory-
And how, when one by one, sweet sounds
And wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face,

Because so broken-hearted

"He shall be strong to sanctify
The poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down

In meeker adoration:

Nor ever shall he be in praise,

By wise or good forsaken;

Named softly, as the household name
Of one whom God has taken!

"With sadness that is calm, not gloom,
I learn to think upon him;
With meekness that is gratefulness,

On God whose heaven hath won him

Who suffered once the madness-cloud,
Toward his love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along

Where breath and bird could find him;

"And wrought within his shattered brain, Such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars,
Harmonious influences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass,
His own did calmly number;
And silent shadow from the trees
Fell o'er him like a slumber.

"The very world, by God's constraint,
From falsehood's chill removing,

Its women and its inen became

Beside him, true and loving!—

And timid hares were drawn from woods
To share his home caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes

With silvan tendernesses.

"But while, in blindness he remained
Unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without
The sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth,
Though frenzy desolated-
Nor man, nor nature satisfy,
When only God created!

"Like a sick child that knoweth not
His mother while she blesses,
And droppeth on his burning brow
The coolness of her kisses;
That turns his fevered eyes around-
My mother! where's my mother?'
As if such tender words and looks
Could come from any other!

"The fever gone, with leaps of heart
He sees her bending o'er him;
Her face all pale from watchful love,
The unweary love she bore him!
Thus, woke the poet from the dream
His life's long fever gave him,