What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? With thy keen clear joyance Languor cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joys we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, From my lips would flow, The world would listen then, as I am listening now. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. THE bark that held a Prince went down : He lived-for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain ; Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again! There stood proud forms around his throne, But which could fill the place of one- Before him pass'd the young and fair But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair,—— He sat where festal bowls went round; He saw the tourney's victor crown'd A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep ; He never smiled again. Hearts in that time closed o'er the trace Of vows once fondly pour'd; And strangers fill'd the kinsman's place Graves, that true love had bathed with tears, Were left to heaven's bright rain : Fresh hopes were born for brighter years— He never smiled again! THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. FAIR images of sleep, Hallow'd, and soft, and deep, On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells Of flowers, in mossy dells, Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies! How many hearts have felt Your silent beauty melt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway! Still, o'er your marble bed, Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung, While Hope hath blights to bear, While Love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung! Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come, Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, And the sweet breathings low, Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; Of those faint murmurs gone, O'er her sick sense too piercingly return; And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust her soul too deeply yearn; O gentle forms entwined Like tendrils, which the wind May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink! A still small voice, a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink! By all the pure meek mind In your pale beauty shrined, By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die! O'er her worn spirit shed, O fairest, holiest dead! The faith, trust, joy, of immortality! A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. BLESSINGS, O Father! shower, Father of mercies! round his precious head! On his lone walks, and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed! Father! I pray Thee not For earthly treasure to that most beloved, N |