Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it;
A strain too learned for a shallow age,
Too wise for selfish bigots;-let his page,
Which charms the chosen spirits of the age,
Fold itself up for a serener clime

Of years to come, and find its recompense
In that just expectation. Wit and sense,
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in Horace Smith. And these,
With some exceptions, which I need not tease
Your patience by descanting on, are all
You and I know in London.

I recall

My thoughts and bid you look upon the night.
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight
Fills the void, hollow, universal air.
What see you?-Unpavilion'd heaven is fair,
Whether the moon, into her chamber gone,
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan
Climbs with diminish'd beams the azure steep;
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep,
Piloted by the many wandering blast,

And the rare stars rush through them, dim and fast.
All this is beautiful in every land.

But what see you beside? A shabby stand
Of hackney-coaches-a brick house or wall,
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl
Of our unhappy politics ;-or worse-
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse
Mix'd with the watchman's, partner of her trade,
You must accept in place of serenade-

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit
Built round dark caverns, even to the root
Of the living stems who feed them; in whose bowers
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers;

Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne
In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance,
Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance
Pale in the open moonshine; but each one
Under the dark trees seems a little sun,
A meteor tamed; a fix'd star gone astray
From the silver regions of the milky way.
Afar the Contadino's song is heard,
Rude, but made sweet by distance; and a bird
Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet
I know none else that sings so sweet as it
At this late hour; and then all is still :-
Now Italy or London, which you will !

Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have
My house by that time turn'd into a grave

Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,
And all the dreams which our tormentors are.
Oh that H-

and were there,

With every thing belonging to them fair!-
We will have books; Spanish, Italian, Greek,

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast;

Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries,-

Feasting on which we will philosophise.

*

*

*

*

*

And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood,
To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood.

And then we'll talk ;-what shall we talk about?
Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout

Of thought-entangled descant ;-as to nerves
With cones and parallelograms and curves,
I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare
To bother me, when you are with me there.
And they shall never more sip laudanum
From Helicon or Himeros ; *--- we'll come
And in despite of * * * and of the devil,
Will make our friendly philosophic revel
Outlast the leafless time;-till buds and flowers
Warn the obscure, inevitable hours
Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew ;-
"To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."

S

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE.

WIFT as a spirit hastening to his task
Of glory and of good, the Sun sprang forth
Rejoicing in his splendour, and the mask

Of darkness fell from the awaken'd Earth-
The smokeless altars of the mountain snows
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth
Of light, the Ocean's orison arose,
To which the birds temper'd their matin lay.
All flowers in field or forest, which unclose

Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day,
Swinging their censers in the element,
With orient incense lit by the new ray
Burn'd slow and inconsumably, and sent
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air;
And, in succession due, did continent,

Isle, ocean, and all things that in them wear
The form and character of mortal mould,

Rise as the sun their father rose, to bear

*

Ίμερος, from which the river Himera was named, is, with some

Their portion of the toil, which he of old
Took as his own and then imposed on them:
But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold

Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem
The cone of night, now they were laid asleep
Stretch'd my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem

Which an old chestnut flung athwart the steep
Of a green Apennine: before me fled
The night; behind me rose the day; the deep

Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head,
When a strange trance over my fancy grew
Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread

Was so transparent, that the scene came through
As clear as when a veil of light is drawn
O'er evening hills they glimmer; and I knew
That I had felt the freshness of that dawn,
Bathed in the sarne cold dew my brow and hair,
And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn

Under the self same bough, and heard as there
The birds, the fountains and the ocean hold
Sweet talk in music through the enamour'd air,
And then a vision on my brain was roll'd.

As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay,
This was the tenour of my waking dream :-
Methought I sate beside a public way

Thick strewn with summer dust, and a great stream
Of people there was hurrying to and fro,
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,

All hastening onward, yet none seem'd to know
Whither he went, or whence he came, or why
He made one of the multitude, and so

Was borne amid the crowd, as through the sky
One of the million leaves of summer's bier;
Old age and youth, manhood and infancy

Mix'd in one mighty torrent did appear,

Some flying from the thing they fear'd, and some
Seeking the object of another's fear;

And others as with steps towards the tomb,

Pored on the trodden worms that crawl'd beneath,
And others mournfully within the gloom

Of their own shadow walk'd and call'd it death;
And some fled from it as it were a ghost,
Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath:
But more with motions, which each other crost,
Pursued or spurn'd the shadows the clouds threw,
Or birds within the noon-day ether lost,

Upon that path where flowers never grew,
And weary with vain toil and faint for thirst,
Heard not the fountains, whose melodious dew
Out of their mossy cells for ever burst;
Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told
Of grassy paths and wood, lawn-interspersed,
With over-arching elms and caverns cold,

And violet banks where sweet dreams brood, but they
Pursued their serious folly as of old.

And as I gazed, methought that in the way
The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June
When the south wind shakes the extinguish'd day,

And a cold glare, intenser than the noon,
But icy cold, obscured with [blinding] light
The sun, as he the stars. Like the young moon

When on the sunlit limits of the night
Her white shell trembles amid crimson air,
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might,