Lifting alike thy head

Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,

Whether with foam or pictured azure spread

The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower,

The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,

As to the shower?

Oh! Love is most like thee,

The love of woman; quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst Life's dark sea.

And Faith-O, is not faith

Like thee too, Lily, springing into light,

Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?

Yes, link'd with such high thought,

Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!

Till something there of its own purity

And peace be wrought:

Something yet more divine

Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed

Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, As from a shrine.

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend
That will not fail me in his love and worth,

Tender, and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I loved the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust,

And fix on thee, th' Unchanging One, my heart!

241

ELYSIUM.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions."

CHATEAUBRIAND, Génie du Christianisme.

FAIR wert thou in the dreams

Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,

And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers!

Where as they passed, bright hours

Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

R

Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,

From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,

Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep Æolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh!

And young

leaves trembling to the wind's light breath

Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky

Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain.

Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain

With dreams and yearnings vain,