X. WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream, To their light morrice by the restless surge. Now to my sober'd thought, with life's false smiles, The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, XI. HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke, Hathi pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke, Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. Yet I would press you to my lips once more, Ye have beguil❜d the hours of infancy, XII. ONCE more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay; I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away. Noting, grey chronicler! the silent years; I saw thee rise,-I saw the scroll complete, The universe gave way. This poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove or shortly afterwards. Henry never laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions. TIME. A POEM. GENIUS of musings, who, the midnight hour Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance; For now I strike to themes of import high Above this narrow cell, I celebrate |