Yet even in these days so far retired,
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming :

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,

Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep: And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in !

VENI CREATOR.

A glorious Hymn, by DRYDEN.

CREATOR Spirit! by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.

O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!

Thou strength of his almighty hand,

Whose power does heaven and earth command!
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence,
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh! inflame and fire our hearts;
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow:
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

THE DYING MOTHER AND HER BABE.

A fine passage in POLLOK's Course of Time.

THE room I well remember, and the bed
On which she lay; and all the faces, too,
That crowded dark and mounfully around.
Her father there, and mother, bending stood;
And down their aged cheeks fell many drops
Of bitterness. Her husband too was there,
And brothers, and they wept; her sisters, too,
Did weep and sorrow comfortless; and all
Within the house was dolorous and sad.
This I remember well-but better still
I do remember, and will ne'er forget,
The dying eye!-That eye alone was bright,
And brighter grew, as nearer death approached;
As I have seen the gentle little flower
Look fairest in the silver beam, which fell
Reflected from the thunder cloud, that soon
Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far
And wide its loveliness. She made a sign

To bring her babe ;-'twas brought, and by her placed.
She looked upon its face, that neither smiled

Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon it; and laid
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought

For it, with looks that seemed to penetrate
The heavens,-unutterable blessings, such
As God to dying parents only grants

For infants left behind them in the world.

"God keep my child !" we heard her say, and heard No more. The Angel of the covenant

Was come, and, faithful to his promise, stood
Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale.
And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still-
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused
With many tears-and closed without a cloud.
They set as sets the morning star, which goes
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides
Obscured among the tempests of the sky,
But melts away into the light of heaven.

TO A FRIEND.

By HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,
The need of human love we little noted:

Our love was nature, and the peace that floated
On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,
To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:
One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,
That wisely doting, asked not why it doted,
And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.
But now I find how dear thou wert to me;
That man is more than half of nature's treasure,
Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,

Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;
And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure,
The hills sleep on in their eternity!

TROCHEE trips from lōng to short;

From long to long, in solemn sort,

Slow Spōndeē stālks; strōng foōt! yet ill able
Evěr to come up with Dactyl trisÿllăble.

Iambics march from shōrt to lōng;

With ǎ leap and ǎ bōund the swift Ānăpaĕsts thrōng;

One syllable long, with one short at each side,

Amphibrachys hastes with ǎ stately strīde;

First and last being lōng, middle shōrt, Amphimacer

Strikes his thundering hoōfs like ǎ proūd high-bred racer.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

By MILTON.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with imbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee :
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly;

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportioned sin

Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

Oh! may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!

CALIDORE.

By KEATS.

YOUNG Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
His healthful spirit eager and awake

To feel the beauty of a silent eve,

Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave,