For his eyes were seal'd, and his mind was dark,

And he sat in his age's lateness,

Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark

Of the frailty of human greatness.

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread,

Unvex'd by life's commotion,

Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift shed

On the calm of a frozen ocean.

O'er him oblivion's waters boom'd,

As the stream of time kept flowing;

And we only heard of our King when doom'd To know that his strength was going.

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,

By weakness rent asunder,

A part of the wreck of the Royal George,

For the people's pity and wonder.

THE BARD'S SONG TO HIS DAUGHTER.

O DAUGHTER dear, my darling child,

Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,

Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,

And wreathed with Spring my wintry age,

Through thee a second prospect opes

Of life, when but to live is glee,

And jocund joys, and youthful hopes,

Come thronging to my heart through thee.

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers

Where love and youth their transports gave;

While forward still thou strewest flowers,

And bidst me live beyond the grave.

For still my blood in thee shall flow,

Perhaps to warm a distant line,

Thy face my lineaments shall show,

And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.

Yes, Daughter, when this tongue is muteThis heart is dust-these eyes are closed, And thou art singing to thy lute

Some stanza by thy sire composed,

To friends around thou mayst impart

A thought of him who wrote the lays, And from the grave my form shall start,

Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.

Then to their memories will throng

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth,

The cheerful page, the lively song,

The woodland walk, or festive mirth;

Then may they heave the pensive sigh

That friendship seeks not to control, And from the fix'd and thoughtful eye The half unconscious tears may roll:

Such now bedew my cheek-but mine Are drops of gratitude and love,

That mingle human with divine

The gift below, its source above.—

How exquisitely dear thou art

Can only be by tears express'd,

And the fond thrillings of my heart

While thus I clasp thee to my breast.

VOL. I.

F

THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING.

FROM the prisons dark of the circling bark

The leaves of tenderest green are glancing;

They gambol on high in the bright blue sky,

Fondly with spring's young Zephyrs dancing, While music and joy and jubilee gush

From the lark and linnet, the blackbird and thrush.

The butterfly springs on its new-born wings,

The dormouse starts from his wintry sleeping;

The flowers of earth find a second birth,

To light and life from the darkness leaping: The roses and tulips will soon resume

Their youth's first perfume and primitive bloom.