picture which our fancy drew.
  O thou, my heart! seek not the empty shows
  And gilded nothings of this little Time,
  But let thine endless effort be to climb
  Above Earth's petty vanities and woes
  Unto a nobler range of feelings, joys,
  Which no false leaven of decay alloys,
  But whose substantial sweetness may increase,
  And make thy journey pleasure, and thy slumber peace.


  IV.

  Sweet spirits of the Beautiful! where'er ye dwell,
  Whether upon the misty mountain tops
  With mantling crags about ye, or in dell
  And sunny valley, by the hazel copse
  Wherein the ring-dove nestles, or by streams
  That wander amid woodlands, with the sheen
  Of noontide trembling through the leafy screen
  Down to their mossy banks in fitful gleams,
  That murmur with the linnets and at e'en
  Sigh with the plaintive nightingale, and oft
  Mirror your bright eyes in the sparkling dew,
  Circle me ever with your joyous crew,
  Bring inspirations to me bland and soft,
  And sun my slumbers still with happy dreams.


  V.

  We are ambitious overmuch in life,
  Straining at ends of hard accomplishment,
  And goaded onward by poor discontent,
  We build our little Babels up through strife,
  And bitterness of soul, and motions rife
  With passions that oft slay the innocent,
  Like Priests of Lust plunging the cruel knife
  Into the victims of their wilderment.
  Not thus do thou, but with a patient hand
  Place thou thine acorn in the fertile soil,
  Labouring ever with unhurtful toil,
  And cheerful hope until the seed expand,
  Grow with the strength of truth, and ripening Time,
  And stand at last in majesty sublime.


  VI.

  Mountains! and huge hills! wrap your mighty forms
  Close with mantle of eternal cloud;
  Gather around ye the fierce band of storms;
  And let the stainless snow-drift be your shroud.
  Back from your rugged steeps, and caverns hoar
  Bellow in hoarse disdain the tempest's roar;
  Laugh at the rolling thunder; let the flash
  Of its fierce lightning lumine but your scorn;
  Down your deep-furrow'd slopes let torrents dash,
  And on the winds their hollow rage be borne.
  Ye mighty ones! Why should ye bow your pride,
  And doff your venerable crowns, or dress
  Your wrinkled brows in smiles, or lay aside
  The dread insignias of your mightiness!


  VII.

  TO ELLA.

  Ofttimes I gaze upon thine eyes, fair child,
  Till sense forgets all but the beautiful,
  And my entranced and raptured heart is full
  Of blissful visions, pure, and bland, and mild
  In their o'erstealing, as the rosy sleep
  That falls upon an infant, wafting it
  In balmy dreams to heaven. Within the deep
  The thrilling sea of their blue loveliness,
  By sun-reflected gleams of heaven uplit,
  My spirit bathes in sweet unconsciousness
  Of aught material, and oft doth drink
  Of beauty there, whose freshness never dies,
  Till, pleasure-lapt, it feels as it could sink
  Beneath the waves, and enter paradise.


  VIII.

  I traverse oft in thought the battle-plain
  Of my past life, 'mid many a shatter'd dream
  Of pleasure, and of hope, which youth in vain
  Based on the shifting sands of Time's swift stream,
  Fond bulwarks 'gainst the strong assaults of pain;
  And 'mid their ruins, like an exiled man
  Gazing on scenes where he can dwell no more,
  I stand and mourn their sweet enchantment o'er,
  Where both life's pleasures and its cares began.
  Earth crumbles 'neath our feet as we walk on,
  And leaves a gulf behind none can retrace;
  Its pleasures flash a moment and are gone;
  But if we treasure in our soul _love's_ grace,
  _That_ will refresh and gladden all our race.


      *       *       *       *       *

                    C. WHITTINGHAM, CHISWICK.