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The birds, as they mingled their music of joy,
And the roses that smiled in the beam,
Would but tell us of feelings for ever gone by,
And of hopes that have passed like a dream!

And the moonlight,--pale spirit! would speak of the time
When we wandered beneath its soft gleam,
Along the green meadows, when life was in prime,
And worshipped its face in the stream:
When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path as bright,
And as cloudless, to fancy's young eye,
As the star-spangled course of that phantom of light,
Along the blue depths of the sky!
Then come in this hour, love! when twilight has hung
Its shadowy mantle around;
And no sound, save the murmurs that breathe from thy tongue,
Or thy footfall-scarce heard on the ground !
Shall steal on the silence, to waken a fear,
When the sun that is gone, with its heat,
Has left on the cheek of all nature a tear,
Then, hearts that are broken should meet!



Morn on the waters !—and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light !
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on :
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale!
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along !
Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily, aloft in the shrouds !
Onwards she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters—away, and away.
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart !
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking, below!



Night on the waves !—and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky;
Treading its depths, in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light
Look to the waters, -asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who—as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep—as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty! could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within !
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,-
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever!
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave!
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song !
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled;
All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,-
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs ?
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on—just to cover our tears ;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.


I am all alone !---and the visions that play
Round life's young days, have passed away;
And the songs are hushed that gladness sings,
And the hopes that I cherished have made them wings;
And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone,
And I sit in my sorrow,—and all alone !

And the forms which I fondly loved are flown,
And friends have departed—one by one;
And memory sits whole lonely hours,
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers,
And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near
To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear!
And the home of my childhood is distant far,
And I walk in a land where strangers are ;
And the looks that I meet, and the sounds that I hear,
Are not light to my spirit, por song to my ear ;
And sunshine is round me, which I cannot see,
And eyes that beam kindness,—but not for me !


And the song goes round, and the glowing smile,-
But I am desolate all the while !
And faces are bright, and bosoms glad,
And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad!
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom,
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom !


I wander about, like a shadow of pain,
With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my brain ;
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladness,-
Oh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness !
So I turn from a world where I never was known,
To sit in my sorrow,—and all alone!


She sleeps—that still and placid sleep

For which the weary pant in vain ;
And, where the dews of evening weep,

may not weep again ;
Oh! never more upon her grave,

Shall I behold the wild flower wave!

They laid her where the sun and moon

Look on her tomb, with loving eye,
And I have heard the breeze of June

Sweep o'er it-like a sigh!
And the wild river's wailing song

Grow dirge-like, as it stole along!

And I have dreamt, in many dreams,

Of her who was a dream to me;
And talked to her, by summer streams,

In crowds, and on the sea,-
Till, in my soul she grew enshrined,

A young Egeria of the mind!

'Tis years ago !-and other eyes

Have flung their beauty o'er my youth; And I have hung on other sighs,

And sounds that seemed like truth; And loved the music which thev gave,

Like that which perished in the grave.

And I have left the cold and dead,

To mingle with the living cold ; There is a weight around my head,

My heart is growing old; Oh ! for a refuge and a home,

With thee, dead Ellen, in thy tomb !


Age sits upon my breast and brain,

My spirit fades before its time;
But they are all thine own again,

Lost partner of their prime!
And thou art dearer, in thy shroud,

Than all the false and living crowd !

Rise, gentle vision of the hours,

Which go-like birds that come not back ! And fling thy pale and funeral flowers

On memory's wasted track !
Oh! for the wings that made thee blest,

To“ fee away, and be at rest!"

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THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born in the city of Bath. His family connexions are good ; his paternal grandmother was the sister of Lord Delamer, and Sir George Thomas, Bart., was his maternal grandfather. He is related to the present Earl of Stamford and Warrington, the Earl of Erroll, and Sir George Thomas. His principal amusement at ten years of age was writing verses and dramas; and being an only child, and his mother having a considerable fortune, he rejected all professional pursuits, and cultivated the talents which had so early developed themselves. In 1826, he married Helena Becher Hayes, a near relation of Sir William Becher, Bart., and shortly afterwards retired to a cottage on the Sussex coast : but in 1831, an almost overwhelming misfortune befel him. His father, from some unexplained cause, became embarrassed, and left the country; and the income settled upon Haynes Bayly at his marriage, has never since been paid. Literature, which had hitherto been his amusement, now became essential to his comfort. If his songs were collected, they would fill many large volumes. He is also the author of several dramas,—“ Perfection,"

," "Sold for a Song," the “ Witness," and some others have not only been successful in the metropolis, but have been acted in almost every theatre in the kingdom. He has been an extensive contributor of prose essays and stories to many of the periodical works; and may be placed among the men of talent who are also men of industry.

The songs of Mr. Bayly have attained a popularity almost without precedent in our time. With the exception of Moore, no living writer has been so eagerly sought after by musical composers; his words have become familiar under almost every roof in the kingdom; and it would be difficult to pass through a street of the metropolis, or of any of the provincial towns, without finding some of them the stock in trade of the ballad-singer. Such large and unqualified success could have been achieved only by a man of considerable skill and ability; and, although attempts have been made to show that the poetry of Haynes Bayly is meretricious, the fact that it is universally admired and enjoyed by the public, is a proof of its merit which a volume of objecting criticism cannot destroy. The secret of his success—if secret it can be called-is that in all his writings he is NATURAL:his songs make their way to the heart; they are understood and appreciated by the unlearned ; they speak the thoughts and describe the feelings of the great mass of mankind, who have no idea of relating their woes and pleasures in splendid diction, or delicately turned sentences. He is tender, as well as natural; and graceful, as well as smooth: his lines run “glibly" on; and the memory easily receives and retains them. If tried by a severe standard, Mr. Bayly cannot be ranked among the higher and more enduring Poets of Great Britain : he has essayed nothing of any length; many hundred songs have, we believe, been written by him; but none of them have a more ambitious object than to produce gratification by the expression of some simple sentiment in pleasing verse; and perhaps a bolder attempt would be a failure. If, however, to have greatly and generally succeeded in a class of composition, by no means of small value, entitles him to a distinguished place among the Poets of his country, Mr. Bayly may fearlessly claim it. He has not only excelled in producing strains of deep feeling and fine sentiment,-in some of his poems there is a vein of arch playfulness and pointed humour that would have secured for him a reputation, had his verses never been associated with music. It is, however, impossible to deny that much of his fame has arisen from this association: he has thus, fortunately, obtained the means of introduction where perhaps it would have been impossible for him otherwise to have been known; but his merit as a writer must have been perceived without such co-operation; with it, it has been effective to a degree alınost unparalleled : so universally, indeed, are the songs of Haynes Bayly heard in the metropolis-in its drawing-rooms and its streets-that the ear has become absolutely surfeited with them; he has had to endure the dangerous consequences of too much popularity.

It will be well if Poets of stronger mind and richer fancy will inquire how it is that the poems of Haynes Bayly have obtained such general favour: the inquiry may tempt them to write below rather than above the standard of excellence, when they design to address themselves to the mass. It would be easy to point out many who have composed " songs"-exquisitely perfect as poems—which few ever think of singing. They may be read with delight by those who can appreciate their superiority; but if they fail in touching the heart, they never make their way among a people.

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