His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread
Unvex'd by life's commotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him Oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing; When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say

The old man's strength was going.

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,
By weakness rent asunder,

A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,
To the people's pity and wonder.

He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust,
Death's hand his slumbers breaking;
For the coffin'd sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and blissful waking.

His people's heart is his funeral urn;

And should sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him.

Horace Smith.-Born 1779, Died 1849.

1420.-ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE.

I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green-
Blithely the birds were singing;
The cymbals replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken-
When every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour
To the muffled drums, deep rolling,
While the minute gun, with its solemn roar,
Drown'd the death-bells' tolling.

The time-since he walk'd in his glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried-
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,

And a son's sole child, have perish'd; And sad was each heart, save only the one By which they were fondest cherish'd;

For his eyes were seal'd and his mind was dark,

And he sat in his age's latenessLike a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness;

1421.-TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

Art thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along that forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent;
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
A phantom of a blessèd dream?

A human shape I feel thou art-
I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !
Though dear the forms by Fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love;
Thoughts from the living world intrude
Even on her deepest solitude:
But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!"

In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child,-all but the name.
How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled

By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard-
Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast!
And for thy smile!-thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I call'd thee duteous; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to nature, and to love!
To God-for thou, a harmless child,
Hast kept his temple undefiled:
To nature-for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To love for fiends of hate might see Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee. What wonder then, though in thy dreams Thy face with mystic meaning beams?

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years; Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on, than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express
Intelligible happiness.

I feel my soul thy soul partake.
What grief! if thou wouldst now awake!
With infants happy as thyself

I see thee bound, a playful elf;

I see thou art a darling child,
Among thy playmates bold and wild;
They love thee well; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green;
And if thou livest to woman's height,
In thee will friendship, love, delight.

And live thou surely must; thy life
Is far too spiritual for the strife
Of mortal pain; nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright-
To those thou lovest, a saving light-
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;
And when thou goest to heaven again,
Thy vanishing be like the strain
Of airy harp-so soft the tone
The ear scarce knows when it is gone!

Thrice blessed he whose stars design
His pure spirit to lean on thine,
And watchful share, for days and years,
Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears!

For good and guiltless as thou art,

Some transient griefs will touch thy heart-
Griefs that along thy alter'd face
Will breathe a more subduing grace
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there,
That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair.
Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again as young, as pure, as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave, the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of Paradise;
And years, so Fate hath order'd, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,
Such as the gladness of thy face,

O sinless babe, by God are given

To charm the wanderer back to heaven.
No common impulse hath me led
To this green spot, thy quiet bed,
Where, by mere gladness overcome,
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.
When to the lake I would have gone,
A wondrous beauty drew me on-
Such beauty as the spirit sees

In glittering fields and moveless trees,
After a warm and silent shower
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour.
What led me hither, all can say
Who, knowing God, his will obey.

Thy slumbers now cannot be long;
Thy little dreams become too strong
For sleep-too like realities;

Soon shall I see those hidden eyes.
Thou wakest, and starting from the ground,
In dear amazement look'st around,
Like one who, little given to roam,
Wonders to find herself from home!
But when a stranger meets thy view,
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.
A moment's thought who I may be,
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.

Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn,
Like a thin veil that half conceal'd
The light of soul, and half reveal'd.
While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eyelash moved with thought;
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek-
Such summer-clouds as travel light,
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright-
Till thou awokest; then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy!
And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure those eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
Nature has breathed into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace-

A spirit that lies never still,

And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will:

As sometimes o'er a sleeping lake

Soft airs a gentle rippling make,

Till, ere we know, the strangers fly, And water blends again with sky

O happy sprite! didst thou but know
What pleasures through my being flow
From thy soft eyes! a holier feeling
From their blue light could ne'er be stealing;
But thou wouldst be more loth to part,
And give me more of that glad heart.
Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence
The glory of thy innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air
That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel, though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live for ever!

John Wilson.-Born 1788, Died 1854.

1422.-THE SABBATH-DAY.

When by God's inward light, a happy child, I walk'd in joy, as in the open air,

It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiled

With glory and with love. So still, so fair, The heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd

morn,

That, without aid of memory, something there

Had surely told me of its glad return.

How did my little heart at evening burn, When, fondly seated on my father's knee, Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer,

Warm from the fount of infant piety!
Much is my spirit changed; for years have
brought

Intenser feeling and expanded thought;
-Yet, must I envy every child I see!

John Wilson.-Born 1788, Died 1854.

1423.-LINES WRITTEN IN A LONELY BURIAL-GROUND IN THE HIGH

LANDS.

How mournfully this burial-ground
Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves
All round these deaf and silent graves!
The cold wan light that glimmers here,
The sickly wild flowers may not cheer;
If here, with solitary hum,

The wandering mountain-bee doth come,
'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,
And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome stoneless cemetery.

This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguish'd kingly race,
Whose name on earth no longer known,
Hath moulder d with the mouldering stone.
That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer-twilight old;
Both late and frequent hath the bier
Been on its mournful visit here;
And yon green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.

I see no little kirk-no bell
On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell;
How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!
But death hath chosen this rueful place
For his own undivided reign!
And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed-
Now, and for everlasting dead,
For Hope with Memory seems fled!

Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea
Winging thy flight reluctantly,

Slow floating o'er these grassy tombs
So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes,
At once from thy wild shriek I know
What means this place so steep'd in woe!
Here, they who perish'd on the deep
Enjoy at last unrocking sleep;
For ocean, from his wrathful breast,
Flung them into this haven of rest,
Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie-
'Tis the shipwreck'd seaman's cemetery.

Here seamen old, with grizzled locks,
Shipwreck'd before on desert rocks,
And by some wandering vessel taken
From sorrows that seem God-forsaken,
Home-bound, here have met the blast
That wreck'd them on death's shore at last!
Old friendless men, who had no tears
To shed, nor any place for fears
In hearts by misery fortified,
And, without terror, sternly died.
Here many a creature moving bright
And glorious in full manhood's might,
Who dared with an untroubled eye
The tempest brooding in the sky,
And loved to hear that music rave,
And danced above the mountain-wave,
Hath quaked on this terrific strand,
All flung like sea-weeds to the land;
A whole crew lying side by side,
Death-dash'd at once in all their pride.
And here the bright-hair'd fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy,
From one who weeps both night and day
For her sweet son borne far away,
Escaped at last the cruel deep,

In all his beauty lies asleep;

While she would yield all hopes of grace
For one kiss of his pale cold face!
Oh! I could wail in lonely fear,

For many a woeful ghost sits here,

All weeping with their fixèd eyes!
And what a dismal sound of sighs
Is mingling with the gentle roar
Of small waves breaking on the shore;
While ocean seems to sport and play
In mockery of its wretched prey!

And lo! a white-wing'd vessel sails
In sunshine, gathering all the gales
Fast freshening from yon isle of pines
That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.
I turn me to the ghostly crowd,

All smear'd with dust, without a shroud,
And silent every blue swollen lip!
Then gazing on the sunny ship,
And listening to the gladsome cheers
Of all her thoughtless mariners,
I seem to hear in every breath
The hollow under-tones of death,
Who, all unheard by those who sing,
Keeps tune with low wild murmuring,
And points with his lean bony hand
To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand,
Then dives beneath the rushing prow,
Till on some moonless night of woe
He drives her shivering from the steep,
Down-down a thousand fathoms deep.

John Wilson.-Born 1788, Died 1854.

Above the happy deep.

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land it is far away;

But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze
In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.
The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,
A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the night looks like a mellow'd day!
The gracious Mistress of the Main
Hath now an undisturbèd reign,
And from her silent throne looks down,
As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest!

John Wilson.-Born 1788, Died 1854.

1425. THE EVENING CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest:
While every breath of evo that chanced to
blow

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is
given;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

John Wilson.-Born 1788, Died 1854.

1426.-PLAGUE SCENES.

Together will ye walk through long, long streets,

All standing silent as a midnight church.
You will hear nothing but the brown red

grass

Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice

Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry
clouds,

Still threatening thunder, lour with grim delight,

As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shadows of death.
Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark, far off
A tumult like an echo! On it comes,
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning
prayer;

And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets.
But are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your heads, from a window, suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot

eyes,

Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls,
As if struck by lightning, down upon the
stones,

Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the Pest's triumphant chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb.
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! a miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along
By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,

Doom'd never to return from the foul pit, Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.

Would you look in? Gray hairs and golden tresses,

Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smiled for years,

And many a rosy visage smiling still;

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,

With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs,-there lie they all,
Embraced in ghastliness! But look not long,
For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there,
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white
hand,

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the
wind,

And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.

In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,

In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath

In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its

roar

In the cliff that once trod, must be tredn

no more

Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threa el thy reign:

-But what if the stag on the mountain be slain?