Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden, and loud, oppressing what it feeds; But like the dew, with gradual, silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads; The happy, grateful spirit that improves,

And brightens every gift by Fortune given ; That wander where it will, with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a hea

ven;

All these were his,-Oh! thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself-thy children,—to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live-like him may die!

October, 1818.

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

THEY may rail at this life-from the hour I began it,

I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss, And until they can show me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I'll content me with this.

As long as the world has such eloquent eyes

As before, me this moment enraptur'd I sec.

They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and

me.

In Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,

Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,

They've non even there more enamour'd than I.

And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above,

But this earth is the planet for you, love,and

me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,

At twllight so often we've roam'd through the dew,

There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

And look, in their twilight, as lovely as you : But though they were even more bright than

the green

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never these fair young celestials have seen, Why this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally

rare,

Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare.

Oh! think what a world we should have of it

here,

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

REMONSTRANCE,

After a conversation with Lord JOHN RUSSELL, in which he had intimated some idea of giving up all political pursuits.

WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth and thy fame;

Thou! born of a RUSSELL, whose instinct to

run

The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same As the eagle's to soar with his eyes on the sun

Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal,

Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er

set

With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal Of a nation that swears by the martyrdom

yet

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and tun from the

strife,

From the mighty arena, where all that is grand,

And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, Is for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh! no, never dream it—while good men despair

Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,

Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her dark'ning horizon as

thou!

With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and

warm,

Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top-cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh, as in youth, It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his

lyre,

Yet mellow'de'en now, by that mildness of truth, Which tempers, but chills not the patriot's

fire:

With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height,

Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er,

But a current that works out its way into light Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of

lore-

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of Fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,

Yet, think how to Freedom thou'rt pledg'd by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laural, by Delphi's de

cree,

Set apart for the fane and its service divine, All the branches that spring from the old Rus SELL tree,

Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her

shrine.

Padua, 1819.

ON BEDS OF SNOW.

ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept,
Sweet maid! it was her Lindor's tomb.

A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air
Congeal'd, as it flow'd away;

All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn, it glitter'd in the ray.