The bard of Religion, sweet Cowper, oft sung

In measures both solemn and airy;

But sweetest his numbers arose, when he strung
His harp to the praise of his Mary.

Anacreon Moore, with his Mary's soft name

His numbers delighted to vary;

And the Homer of Britain left Troy's fairest dame, To sing to his lovelier Mary.

Thus oft to Parnassus the poet has gone,
For a wreath for the brow of his dearie;
Thus oft in high strains of immortal renown,
Embalmed the sweet name of his Mary.

Then, lady, accept the slight tribute I bring,
From the Muse in her jealousy chary:
Though others have sounded a loftier string,
None sang for a lovelier Mary!

1842.

15*

ΤΟ

The minstrel, as his wild notes die
Along the mountains lone,
Hears Echo from her caves reply,
Nor knows the strain his own.

The maid, in glassy stream, surveys
Her face, reflected bright,

And deems she views, with raptured gaze,
A heaven with stars of light.

But not from Echo's caves the song
That charms the listening air,

And not to glassy streams belong
Those orbs so softly fair.

Music and beauty thus reclaim

The thousand joys they give;

And 'mid their echoes, in their own

Reflected sweetness live.

Dead were the eye, on which thy glance

Left not its lightning track;

And dead the heart, that heard thy voice, Nor echoed music back.

But could'st thou look beneath the eye,

And hear the murmurs low

Of those deep streams, that silently
Through the heart's channel flow-

E'en then, beneath those shadowy waves, Thine image thou might'st see,

And hear within their haunted caves,

An echo rise for thee!

1842.

To sing

For E. D. G.

Not Phoebus' lute I bring,

Nor heavenly muse from sacred spring,

Or mountains, where her favourite dwellings be;

But in the thoughtful silence of the moon's sad light, When the still earth is wrapped in dreams, and fancy, sporting free, Wakes memories in the heart's deep cell, and visions fair to see; While from the past arise dear forms of old delight, And for the future, hope unfolds her wing; The thoughts that come, like billows bright Upon a starry sea,

Shall sing to-night

To thee.

The stars are out; in her silvery car
The moon rides up the sky;

The winds have fled to their caves afar,
On the hills the echoes slumbering are,
Where the quiet moonbeams lie-
Why gaze I thus on that beauteous star,
With a tear-drop in my eye?

E'en now, as I watched, through the azure clear,

That star as it blazed along,

An echo fell on my spirit's ear,

Like the notes which the angels love to hear,

And the whirling spheres prolong.

'Twas Venus who sang to her sister sphere, And a poet heard the song.

I.

"Alone in my splendour,
The queen of a train

Of thousands, that render

Their homage in vain;
Unmatched through the mazes
Of beauty I fly,

And waken the praises

Of earth and the sky.

II.

"Through the halls of the even,
When gaily I roam,

The children of heaven

Look out from their home;