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They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;-
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain:

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!

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THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the Depths have more!-What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main!
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the Depths have more!-Thy waves have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,-
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown, Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the Dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!— Restore the Dead, thou Sea!

DEATH-SONG OF THE SWAN.

"Summer, I depart!

O light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell,
For one, one broken heart.

And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn; ye will shed odour still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill,
Known to my youth's fresh hours.

And ye, bright founts, that lie

Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-
-Sweet waters! I must die.

Will ye not send one tone

Of sorrow through the pines?-one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?

No, ever glad and free!

Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare well!
Ye will not mourn for me.

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But thou, sweet boon, too late Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong, In the dark hour of fate?

Only to wake the sighs
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say-O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love, farewell!"

From National Lyrics.

THIS amiable young man, who gave such high promises of excellence which he was not permitted to realize, was of humble origin, being the son of a liverystable keeper in Moorfields, where he was born on the 29th of October, 1796. He received a classical education at Enfield, after which he was apprenticed to Mr. Hammond, a surgeon, at Edmonton. As he inherited, however, a small independence, he soon quitted this uncongenial occupation, and devoted himself exclusively to study and poetry. The young poet was of a sickly constitution and extreme sensibility, so that the aliment by which his mind was nourished into precocious vigour, contained also the seeds of premature decay and death. He was indeed a creature all impulse and feeling, who glowed, trembled, or wept, in the extreme, according as the mood predominated.

In consequence of Keats's enthusiasm for poetry, he obtained through Mr. Clarke, the son of his schoolmaster, an introduction to Leigh Hunt—but perhaps he would have been more fortunate if he had found a director possessed of a colder heart, and a sterner system of criticism. As it was, Hunt received the young aspirant with enthusiasm, and the latter copied in return the peculiarities of his Mentor to exaggeration-even to caricature. Mr. Hunt introduced Keats to public notice as a poet, in The Examiner, in 1817, and this was enough to whet the attention of political criticism, and prepare every literary Tory for the onset. In his affectionate Cicerone, however, Keats found an able defender and steady friend, so that while one party vehemently opposed, another as fervently advocated, the claims of the youthful author. The next publication of Keats was Endymion, a work overflowing with poetical richness—but by how much it surpassed his first production, was the increased malignity of criticism. It is painful also to mention upon this head, that the editor of The Quarterly Review, himself a person who had been raised from humble unnoticed youth to patronage and eminence, forgot the mercy he had received from others in the truculent bitterness with which he anatomized the work, and the fierce condemnation which he pronounced upon it. It is said, that he had expressed his intention to denounce the Endymion even before he saw it. It unfortunately happened also that Keats, in his peculiarities of style and expression, had laid himself too open to ridicule but it should have been remembered that these were only the faults of a young mind, which a few years would have corrected; and that they were nobly redeemed by qualities of the highest promise, and which it was their duty, as it might afterwards have been their boast, to have cherished. The poetical soil was surpassingly rich, and was therefore well worth weeding; but instead of this, it was sown with salt, and trodden under foot.

By this time, the naturally delicate constitution of the young poet showed symptoms of consumption, and the languor and pain of disease were embittered by the malignity he had experienced. A milder climate was judged necessary for his health, and Keats left England for Italy in 1820. But, as in most cases of this nature, the remedy was tried too late, for he expired at Rome on the 24th of February, in the following year. Even his anticipations of death were poetical, for he declared, during the last stages of his decline, that he already felt the daisies growing over him. His remains were deposited in the cemetery of the Protestants at Rome, at the foot of the pyramid of Caius Cestius, near the Porta San Paolo, where a tomb has been raised to his memory bearing he following inscription:

This Grave

contains all that was mortal

of a

Young English Poet,

who,

on his death-hed,

in the bitterness of his heart

at the malicious power of his Enemies,

desired

these words to be engraved on his tombstone

HERE LIES ONE

WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER.

Feb. 24, 1821.

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I need not any hearing tire, By telling how the sea-born goddess pined

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind
Him all in all unto her doting self.

Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf,
He was content to let her amorous plea

Faint through his careless arms; content to see
An unseized heaven dying at his feet;
Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,
When on the pleasant grass such love, love-lorn,
Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born
Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs
Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.

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