And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains : parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till

and all is gray.


tis gone

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It was an aged man, who stood

Beside the blue Atlantic sea ; They cast his fetters by the flood,

And haild the time-worn captive free; From his indignant eye there flash'd

A gleam his better nature gave, And while his tyrants shrank abashid,

Thus spoke the spirit-stricken slave:

Bring back the chain, whose weight so long

These tortur'd limbs have vainly borne ;
The word of freedom from your tongue,

My weary ear rejects with scorn!
• Tis true, there was - there was a time,

I sigh’d, I panted to be free;
And, pining for my sunny clime,

Bow'd down my stubborn knee.
" Then I have stretch'd my yearning arms,

And shook in wrath my bitter chain ;
Then, when the magic word had charms,

I groan'd for liberty in vain!
That freedom ye, at length, bestow,

And bid me bless my envied fate :
Ye tell me I am free to go

Where? I am desolate !

“ The boundless hope — the spring of joy

Felt when the spirit's strength is young; Which slavery only can alloy,

The mockeries to which I clung ;
The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray

Made life's dull lamp less dimly burn,
The tones I pin'd for day by day, -


bid them return?

“ Bring back the chain; its clanking sound

Hath then a power beyond your own ; It brings young visions smiling round,

Too fondly lov'd- too early flown! It brings me days when these dim eyes

Gaz'd o'er the wild and swelling sea, Counting how many suns must rise

Ere one might hail me free!


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· Bring back the chain! that I


think 'Tis that which weighs my spirit so; And, gazing on each galling link,

Dream as I dreamt of bitter woe! My days are gone; - of hope, of youth,

These traces now alone remain ; (Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)

Tears, and my iron chain !

“ Freedom ! though doom'd in pain to live,

The freedom of the soul is mine; But all of slavery you could give

Around my steps must ever twine. Raise

up the head which age hath bent: Renew the hopes that childhood gave ; Bid all return kind Heaven once lent, Till then I am a slave !"



AMID the torch-lit gloom of Aachen's 1 aisle

Stood Otho, Germany's imperial lord,
Regarding, with a melancholy smile,

A simple stone, where, fitly to record
A world of action by a single word,

Was graven “ Carlo Magno.” Regal style
Was needed none; that name such thoughts re-

stor'd As sadden, yet make nobler, men the while. They roll'd the marble back. With sudden gasp,

A moment o'er the vault the Kaiser bent,

Where still a mortal monarch seem'd to reign : Crown'd on his throne, a sceptre in his grasp,

Perfect in each gigantic lineament,
Otho look'd face to face on Charlemagne.


I The German name for Aix-la-chapelle, so called from “ the chapel” erected by Charlemagne as a burial-place for himself, after the design of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. The original church was destroyed by the Normans, and rebuilt in 983 by Otho III., who, in 997, opened the vault in which were found the remains of Charlemagne. He found the body, not reclining in his coffin, but seated in his throne as one alive, clothed in the imperial robes, bearing the sceptre in his hand, and on his knees a copy of the Gospels. On his brow was the crown; the imperial mantle covered his shoulders; the sword Joyeuse by his side; and the pilgrim's pouch, which he had borne always while living, was still fastened to his girdle. The throne or marble arm-chair is still in the cathedral; the other relics were removed, and used in the coronation ceremonies of succeeding emperors of Germany. They are now deposited at Venice.


FLOWERS!— when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye

Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you

That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky;
Then, in the bosom of your purity

A voice he set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,

Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too apt its low, celestial sound
By the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd,

And the loud steps of vain, unlistening haste;
Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,
yours, meek lilies !-chosen thus and grac'd.



TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
With magic tints to harmonise the scene.
Stilld is the hum that thro’ the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols clos'd the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasur'd tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear?

yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleas’d, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.

See, thro’ the fractur'd pediment reveald,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield,
The marten’s old, hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest !

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call !
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly

hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chas’d the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And Fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scal'd the lonely tower; O’er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep.


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