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Never heeding those that flow
When heaven is dark and earth below;
The same through days, and months, and years,
Spite of our joys, and hopes, and fears, –
Spite of our changes and our tears ;
Sullen, save when skies are fair,
Thou hast in our love no share.

We have planted at thy foot
Trailing rose and ivy root,-
We have brought the wild, red vine,
Hereafter round thy base to shine,
Willing that some of Nature's grace
Should fit thee for so fair a place.
Yet the thought will still return-
Thou art some sepulchral urn,
A sorrowful, cold monument,
Of hours of gladness long since spent-
Hours of sunshine that are fled-
Leaves and blossoms past and dead.

Haply some might plead for thee
That it were as well to see,
Mid all this mutability,
Something that remains behind,
Spite of winter's rain and wind.
Have we not full many an oak
Unbow'd by winter's frequent stroke,
A witness of enduring life,
Through wet and cold, decay and strife ?
Boast we not full many a pine,
Alway green through storm and shine ?
And over all the blessed sky
Smileth on unchangeably,
Though clouds and shadows pass between
Us and its all-lovely sheen.

When from this beloved spot
We depart, returning not, —
Weeping when we name its name,
Thou alone wilt be the same.
The fondly-tended flowers will fade,
Some spell of change on all be laid ;

But thou, all-cheerless then, and sad,
As now thou art, though we be glad,
Wilt bear no sign for other eyes
Of aught we've done, or gay or wise,
Of aught that made our dwelling bright,
Our love, our laughter, and delight.
The selfsame tale will still be told
Thou tellest now, and saidst of old;
No word of care's dull bondage riven,
Of blessed thoughts and visions given
To list the spirit nearer heaven;
Nought of the peace we here have won-
Only that Time is hastening on !


From the Play of Richelieu, by Sir E. BULWER LYTTON.

O! YE, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell;
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd
Upon the dark and storiny tides where life
Gives battle to the elements—and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight
Will bear but one—while round the desperate wretch
The hungry billows roar, and the fierce Fate
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf,
Waits bim who drops ; ye safe and formal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the great-
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried !
History preserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are, and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the features !
Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton! Without
The colourings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
Can make our memory hideous.

I bave wrought
Great uses out of evil tools; and they
In the time to come may bask beneath the light
Which I have stolen from the angry gods,
And warn their sons against the glorious theft,
Forgetful of the darkness which it broke.
I have shed blood; but I have had no foes
Save those the state had. If my wrath was deadly
'Tis that I felt my country in my veins,
And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own.
And yet I am not happy; blanch'd and seard
Before my time, breathing an air of hate,
And seeing daggers in the eyes


men, And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth In contest with the insects; bearding kings And braved by lackies-murder at my bed ; And lone amidst the multitudinous web, With the dread Three—that are the Fates who hold The woof and shears—the monk, the spy, the headsman. And this is power! Alas! I am not happy.

(After a pause.) And

yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds Its rising roots not up; but never yet Did one least barrier by a ripple vex My onward tide, unswept in sport away. Am I so ruthless then that I do hate Them who hate me ? Tush, tush! I do not hate; Nay, I forgive. The statesman writes the doom, But the priest sends the blessing. I forgive them, But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own, Destruction is the state's! For private life, Scripture the guide—for public, Machiavel. Would Fortune serve me if the Heavens were wroth ? For chance makes half my greatness. I was born Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star, And my triumphant adamant of 'soul Is but the fix'd persuasion of success.



As skylarks love the clouded sky,
Where bees and flowers are, there am I.
Who loves not flowers ? I know not who:
But this I know, most good folks do.
No foe of flowers could I forgive;
They are my life, in them I live;
But oh! there's frailty in their beauty,
How mutely making sadness duty.



Go teach the eagle, when in azure heaven
He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey,
Shiv'ring through the death-circle of its fear,
To pause and let it ’scape, and thou may'st win
Man to forego the sparkling round of power
When it floats airily within his grasp.




If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.



She was innocent!
And to lie innocent is Nature's wisdom !
The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air,
Fear'd soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter;
And the young steed recoils upon his haunches,
The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard.
Oh! surer than suspicion's hundred eyes
Is that fine sense which to the pure in heart,
By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness,
Reveals the approach of evil !



'Tis never woman's part
Out of her fond misgivings to perplex
The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ;
'Tis her's to weave all that she has of fair
And bright in the dark meshes of their web
Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart
Hath found its refuge in a hero's love;
Whatever destiny his generous soul
Shape for him,— 'tis its duty to be still,
And trust him till it bound or break with him.



And in the thickest covert of that shade,
There was a pleasant arbour, not by art,
But of the trees' owne inclination made,
Which knitting their rancke braunches part to part,
With wanton yvie twine entrayld athwart,
And eglantine and caprifole among,
Fashion'd above within their inmost part,
That neither Phæbus' beams could through them throng,
Nor Æolus' sharp blast could worke them any wrong.



She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair, the black curls strive, but fail
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.



The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind,
And in my face deep furrows eld hath plight;
My head besprent with hoary frost I find,
And by mine eye the crow his claw doth wright;
Delight is laid abed, and pleasure past;
No sun now shines, clouds have all overcast.


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