CLXXX.

THOMAS HOOD,

1798-1845.

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.

CLXXXI.

FAIR INES.

SAW ye not fair Ines?

She's gone into the west,

To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalled bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write !

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whispered thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And snowy plumes they wore ;

It would have been a beauteous dream,

-If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With Music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad and felt no mirth,

But only Music's wrong,

In sounds that sang 'Farewell, farewell,

To her you've loved so long.'

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,

Alas! for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore;

The smile that blest one lover's heart

Has broken many more!

Ο

CLXXXII.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, 1802-1839.

TIME'S SONG.

'ER the level plains, where mountains greet me as I

go,

O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,—I have crushed his

spear;

Grief within her bower was weeping,-I have dried her

tear;

Pleasure caught a minute's hold, then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame? Genius said 'I live in story:' who hath heard his name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered 'Why so fast?' And the roses on his brow withered as I past.