THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,

This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I loved the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart!

PASSING AWAY.

"Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains.

Ir is written on the rose,

In its glory's full array

Read what those buds disclose

It is written on the skies

Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's dyes—

"Passing away."

PASSING AWAY.

It is written on the trees,

As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these

"Passing away."

It is written on the brow

Where the spirit's ardent ray

Lives, burns, and triumphs now

"Passing away."

It is written on the heart—
Alas! that there Decay

Should claim from Love a part

Friends, friends!-oh! shall we meet

In a land of purer day,

Where lovely things and sweet

Pass not away

Shall we know each other's eyes,

And the thoughts that in them lay,

When we mingled sympathies—

?

"Passing away?"

Oh! if this may be so,

Speed, speed, thou closing day! How blest, from earth's vain show

To pass away!

171

THE ANGLER.'

"I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me:
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice:

*

And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave."

ISAAC WALTON.

THOU that hast loved so long and well
The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,

Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,

The scythe upon the mead:

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled Death's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric Watts.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;

'Tis not the bittern by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is fill'd with summer's breath,

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The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death!

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour,

By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

66

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

"Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!

I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!

"Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chiefBid her a long farewell!

Like the morning's dew shall pass that griefThou comest with me to dwell!

"Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep Thy steed o'er the breezy hill;

But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill!"

"Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death! And is thy day so near?

Then on the field shall my life's last breath
Mingle with victory's cheer!

"Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, Above me as I die!

And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky.

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High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall,-
Death, Death, I fear thee not!"

"Warrior! thou bear'st a haughty heart,

But I can bend its pride!

How should'st thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory's tide?

"It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,

It

That I shall make thee mine;

may be lone on the desert sands,

Where men for fountains pine!