THE CONTRAST.

LINES WRITTEN WHILE STANDING UNDER

WINDSOR TERRACE.

I.

I SAW him once on the Terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with court, and in all the crowd

Not a single look of sadness;

Bright was the sun and the trees were green,
Blithely the birds were singing,

The cymbal replied to the tambourine
And the bells were merrily ringing.

II.

I stood at the grave beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken,

But every eye was dim with a tear,

And the silence by sobs was broken. The time since he walked in his glory thus To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to us, But to him of night unvaried.

III.

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark,
And he sat, in his age's lateness,
Like a vision enthroned as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness.
A daughter beloved, a Queen, a Son,
And a son's sole child, have perished,
And it saddened each heart, save his alone
By whom they were fondest cherished.

IV.

We have fought the fight. From his lofty throne
The foe to our land we tumbled,

And it gladdened each heart, save his alone
For whom that foe was humbled:

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvaried by life's emotion,

Like a yearly lengthening snowdrift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

V.

Still o'er him Oblivion's waters lay,

Though the tide of life kept flowing; When they spoke of the King, 'twas but to say, "The old man's strength is going."

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,

By weakness rent asunder,

A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,

For the people's pity and wonder.

VI.

He is gone at length—he is laid in dust,
Death's hand his slumber breaking;
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and certain waking;
The people's heart is his funeral urn,

And should sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him.

ON HEARING "THE LAST ROSE OF

SUMMER."

I.

THAT strain again! It seems to tell
Of something like a joy departed;

I love its mourning accents well,

Like voice of one, ah ! broken-hearted.

II.

That note that pensive dies away,

And can each answering thrill awaken,

It sadly, wildly, seems to say,

Thy meek heart mourns its truth forsaken.

III.

Or there was one who never more

Shall meet thee with the looks of gladness,

When all of happier life was o'er,

When first began thy night of sadness.

IV.

Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,

Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;

Too well-the heart that loved in vain

Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.

SONNET.

My spirit's on the mountains, where the birds
In wild and sportive freedom wing the air,
Amidst the heath flowers and the browsing herds,
Where nature's altar is, my spirit's there.
It is my joy to tread the pathless hills,

Though but in fancy-for my mind is free
And walks by sedgy ways and trickling rills,
While I'm forbid the use of liberty.

This is delusion-but it is so sweet

That I could live deluded. Let me be Persuaded that my springing soul may meet The eagle on the hills-and I am free. Who'd not be flattered by a fate like this? To fancy is to feel our happiness.