THE hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those happy hours, when down the mountain-side We saw the rosy mists of morning glide, And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way, Full of young life and hope, to meet the day. The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those sunny hours, when from the midday heat We sought the waterfall with loitering feet, And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool, Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky, Alike without a cloud, without a ray, The round red autumn moon came glowingly, While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way.

The hours are past, love,

Oh, fled they not too fast, love!

Those blessed hours when the bright day was past, And in the world we seem'd to wake alone, When heart to heart beat throbbingly and fast, And love was melting our two souls in one.


THOU poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil
Of life, which I am doom'd to till full sore,
Spring'st like a noisome weed! I do not toil
For thee, and yet thou still com'st darkening o'er
My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.
Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs
All fair and gentle buds hang withering,
Why hast thou wreath'd thyself around my brows,
Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,

Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade? Alas! thou art an evil weed of wo,

Water'd with tears and watch'd with sleeplesscare; Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare; And yet men covet thee-ah, wherefore do they so!


On! turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,

I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow

By the warm blood that mantles there.


O SERIOUS eyes! how is it that the light,

The burning rays, that mine pour into ye, Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark as nightO lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?

O lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch no spell
To waken sense in ye?-O misery!—
O breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
Thou soulless mimicry of life; my tears

Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
I press thee to my heart, whose hopes and fears
Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.

O thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?


THERE's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.
When thou art with me every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewilder'd spirit seems to swim

In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look and tone;
And suddenly I wake-and am alone.


NIGHT in her dark array

Steals o'er the ocean, And with departed day

Hush'd seems its motion Slowly o'er yon blue coast

Onward she's treading,
Till its dark line is lost,

'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the green billow.
Bound by her emerald zone

Venice is lying,

And round her marble crown

Night winds are sighing. From the high lattice now

Bright eyes are gleaming, That seem on night's dark brow, Brighter stars beaming. Now o'er the blue lagune

Light barks are dancing, And 'neath the silver moon Swift oars are glancing. Strains from the mandolin Steal o'er the water, Echo replies between

To mirth and laughter. O'er the wave seen afar, Brilliantly shining, Gleams like a fallen star Venice reclining.


RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES is a native of Yorkshire, and was born about the year 1806. On the completion of his education at Cambridge he travelled a considerable time on the Continent, and soon after his return home was elected a member of the House of Commons, for Pontefract. He has voted in Parliament with the Tories, but has won little distinction as a politician.

The poetical works of Mr. MILNES are Memorials of a Tour in Greece, published in 1834, Poems of Many Years, in 1838, Poetry for the People, in 1840, and Palm Leaves, in 1844. The last volume was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant in 1842 and 1843, and is an attempt to instruct the western world in oriental modes of thought and feeling, by a series of poems in the oriental spirit, not an unsuccessful effort, but one with precedents, both in England and on the Continent. A complete edition of his writings, in four volumes, has recently been published in London by Mr. Moxon. I believe none of them have been reprinted in this country.


WHEN from the key-stone of the arch of life
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,—

If then, as well may be, he stand alone,

How will his heart recall the youthful throng, Who leap'd with helping hands from stone to stone, And cheer'd the progress with their choral song! How will sad memory point where, here and there, Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate, From him or from each other parted were,

And love sometimes become the nurse of hate.

Yet at this hour no feelings dark or fierce,
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,-
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.
Rather, he thinks, he held not duly dear

Love, the best gift that man on man bestows, While round his downward path, recluse and drear, He feels the chill, indifferent shadows close. Old limbs, once broken, hardly knit together,Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine; Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather; Experience tests and mars the sense divine;


In Leucas, one of his earlier productions, Mr. MILNES discloses his poetical theory. Reproaching SAPPHIO, he says,—

"Poesy, which in chaste repose abides,

As in its atmosphere; that placid flower
Thou hast exposed to passion's fiery tides."

With him poetry is the expression of beauty, not of passion, and no one more fully realizes his own ideal in his works, which are serene and contemplative, and pervaded by a true and genial philosophy. They are unequal, but there is about them that indescribable charm which indicates genuineness of feeling. This is particularly observable in the pieces having reference to the affections. The simplicity of the incidents portrayed, and the seeming artlessness of the diction, sometimes remind us of WORDSWORTH, but there is a point and meaning in his effusions which makes him occasionally superior to the author of the Excursion in pathos, however much he may at times fall below him in philosophical sentiment. Probably no one among the younger poets of England has founded a more enduring or more enviable reputation.

Thus now, though ever loth to underprize

Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears, Still worthier seems to his reflective eyes The friendship that sustains maturer years.

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Why did I not," his spirit murmurs deep, "At every cost of momentary pride, Preserve the love for which in vain I weep;

Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside? "Oh cruel issue of some selfish thought!

Oh long, long echo of some angry tone! Oh fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught, Alone to linger and to die alone!

"No one again upon my breast to fall,

To name me by my common Christian name,No one in mutual banter to recall

Some youthful folly or some boyish game; "No one with whom to reckon and compare

The good we won or miss'd; no one to draw Excuses from past circumstance or care,

And mitigate the world's unreasoning law!

"Were I one moment with that presence blest, I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain, I would invade the soul I once possest, And once for all my ancient love regain!" 2R2



I HAVE no Comeliness of frame,
No pleasant range of feature;
I'm feeble, as when first I came

To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;

But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.

The trivial part in life I play

Can have so light a bearing

On other men, who, night or day,
For me are never caring;

That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,

I know that I am tempted less,-
And that is consolation.

The beautiful! the noble blood!

I shrink as they pass by,Such power for evil or for good

Is flashing from each eye;

They are indeed the stewards of Heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!

'Tis true, I am hard buffetted,

Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;

But then I think, "had I been born,-
Hot spirit-sturdy frame-
And passion prompt to follow scorn,-
I might have done the same."
To me men are for what they are,
They wear no masks with me;
I never sicken'd at the jar
Of ill-tuned flattery;

I never mourn'd affections lent

In folly or in blindness;—

The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking kindness.

And most of all, I never felt

The agonizing sense

Of seeing love from passion melt

Into indifference;

The fearful shame, that day by day

Burns onward, still to burn,

To have thrown your precious heart away,

And met this black return.

I almost fancy that the more
I am cast out from men,

Nature has made me of her store

A worthier denizen;

As if it pleased her to caress
A plant grown up so wild,
As if the being parentless
Made me the more her child.

Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
I fall into the dewy grass,
And cool my fever'd cheek;

And hear a music strangely made,

That you have never heard, A sprite in every rustling blade, That sings like any bird.

My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,— But yet I always run,

As to a father's morning kiss,

When rises the round sun;

I see the flowers on stalk and stem,
Light shrubs, and poplars tall,
Enjoy the breeze,-I rock with them,—
We're merry brothers all.

I do remember well, when first
I saw the great blue sea,-

It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;

My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow;

I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.

The lamb that at it's mother's side
Reclines, a tremulous thing,
The robin in cold winter-tide,

The linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,

And love my slender hand,— For we are bound, by God's decree, In one defensive band.

And children, who the worldly mind And ways have not put on,

Are ever glad in me to find

A blithe companion:

And when for play they leave their homes, Left to their own sweet glee,

They hear my step, and cry, "He comes,

Our little friend,-'tis he."

Have you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend

Your eyes to one particular light,
Till it became a friend?

And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far

Or more or less, it matter'd not,-
It still was your own star.

Thus, and thus only, can you know,

How I, even scornéd I,

Can live in love, though set so low,

And my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,
The meanest, lornest thing of all—
Still owns its right to love.

With no fair round of household cares
Will my lone heart be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs

Will touch a loving breast;
No darling pledge of spousal faith
Shall I be found possessing,
To whom a blessing with my breath
Would be a double blessing:

But yet my love with sweets is rife,

With happiness it teems,

It beautifies my waking life,

And waits upon my dreams;

A shape that floats upon the night,
Like foam upon the sea,—

A voice of seraphim,-a light
Of present Deity!

I hide me in the dark arcade,

When she walks forth alone,-
I feast upon her hair's rich braid,—
Her half-unclasped zone :
I watch the flittings of her dress,
The bending boughs between,—
I trace her footsteps' faery press,
On the scarcely ruffled green.

Oh deep delight! the frail guitar

Trembles beneath her hand,

She sings a song she brought from far,

I cannot understand;

Her voice is always as from heaven,
But yet I seem to hear

Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.

She has turn'd her tender eyes around,
And seen me crouching there,
And smiles, just as that last full sound
Is fainting on the air;

And now, I can go forth so proud,

And raise my head so tall,-
My heart within me beats so loud,
And musical withal:-

And there is summer all the while,

Mid-winter though it be,

How should the universe not smile,
When she has smiled on me?

For though that smile can nothing more
Than merest pity prove,

Yet pity, it was sung of yore,
Is not so far from love.

From what a crowd of lovers' woes

My weakness is exempt!

How far more fortunate than those Who mark me for contempt!

No fear of rival happiness

My fervent glory smothers, The zephyr fans me none the less That is so bland to others.

Thus without share in coin or land,
But well content to hold

The wealth of nature in my hand,
One flail of virgin gold,-
My love above me like a sun,—
My own bright thoughts my wings,-
Through life I trust to flutter on,

As gay as aught that sings.

One hour I own I dread,-to die
Alone and unbefriended,—
No soothing voice, no tearful eye,-
But that must soon be ended;

And then I shall receive my part

Of everlasting treasure,

In that just world where each man's heart Will be his only measure.


GENTLY supported by the ready aid

Of loving hands, whose little work of toil Her grateful prodigality repaid

With all the benediction of her smile, She turn'd her failing feet To the soft pillow'd seat, Dispensing kindly greetings all the while. Before the tranquil beauty of her face

I bow'd in spirit, thinking that she were A suffering angel, whom the special grace Of God intrusted to our pious care, That we might learn from her The art to minister

To heavenly beings in seraphic air. There seem'd to lie a weight upon her brain, That ever press'd her blue-vein'd eyelids down, But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain, Nor seem her forehead with the faintest frown: She was as she were proud, So young, to be allow'd

To follow Him who wore the thorny crown. Nor was she sad, but over every mood,

To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth, Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood, Of quiet gaiety, and serenest mirth; And thus her voice did flow, So beautifully low,

A stream whose music was no thing of earth.

Now long that instrument has ceased to sound,
Now long that gracious form in earth has lain
Tended by nature only, and unwound
Are all those mingled threads of love and pain;
So let me weep and bend

My head, and wait the end,
Knowing that God creates not thus in vain.


IN reverence will we speak of those that woo
The ear Divine with clear and ready prayer;
And, while their voices cleave the Sabbath air,
Know their bright thoughts are winging heaven-
ward too.

Yet many a one-the latchet of whose shoe"

These might not loose-will often only dare Lay some poor words between him and despair— "Father, forgive! we know not what we do."

For, as Christ pray'd, so echoes our weak heart, Yearning the ways of God to vindicate, But worn and wilder'd by the shows of fate, Of good oppress'd and beautiful defiled,

Dim alien force, that draws or holds apart From its dear home that wandering spirit-child.


THE words that trembled on your lips
Were utter'd not-I know it well;
The tears that would your eyes eclipse
Were check'd and smother'd ere they fell:
The looks and smiles I gain'd from you

Were little more than others won,
And yet you are not wholly true,

Nor wholly just what you have done.

You know, at least you might have known,
That every little grace you gave,—
Your voice's somewhat lower'd tone,-

Your hand's faint shake or parting wave,— Your every sympathetic look

At words that chanced your soul to touch, While reading from some favourite book,

Were much to me-alas, how much!
You might have seen-perhaps you saw-
How all of these were steps of hope
On which I rose, in joy and awe,

Up to my passion's lofty scope;
How after each, a firmer tread

I planted on the slippery ground, And higher raised my venturous head, And ever new assurance found.

May be, without a further thought,

It only pleased you thus to please, And thus to kindly feelings wrought

You measured not the sweet degrees; Yet, though you hardly understood

Where I was following at your call,
You might I dare to say you should-
Have thought how far I had to fall.

And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised,
I see another's glad success,
I may have wrongfully accused
Your heart of vulgar fickleness:
But even now, in calm review

Of all I lost and all I won,

I cannot deem you wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.


I SEE the worlds of earth and sky
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye-

I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,-
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
Round me in rich profusion lie

Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree,

But what the pleasure, what the worth If all is savourless to me?

I hear the subtle chords of sound,
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without-around-

But will not enter and imbue:
While harmonies diviner still,

Sweet greetings, appellations dear,
That used through every nerve to thrill,
I often hear, and only hear.

O dreadful thought! if by God's grace
To souls like mine there should be given
That perfect presence of his face,

Which we, for want of words, call heaven,— And unresponsive even there

This heart of mine could still remain, And its intrinsic evil bear

To realms that know no other pain.

Better down nature's scale to roll,

Far as the base, unbreathing clod, Then rest a conscious reasoning soul, Impervious to the light of God;Hateful the powers that but divine What we have lost beyond recall, The intellectual plummet-line

That sounds the depths to which we fall.


EVIL, every living hour,

Holds us in its wilful hand, Save as thou, essential Power, May'st be gracious to withstand: Pain within the subtle flesh,

Heavy lids that cannot close, Hearts that hope will not refresh,— Hand of healing! interpose.

Tyranny's strong breath is tainting
Nature's sweet and vivid air,
Nations silently are fainting,
Or up-gather in despair:

Not to those distracted wills

Trust the judgment of their woes;
While the cup of anguish fills,
Arm of Justice! interpose.

Pleasures night and day are hovering
Round their prey of weary hours,
Weakness and unrest discovering
In the best of human powers:
Ere the fond delusions tire,

Ere envenom'd passion grows
From the root of vain desire,-

Mind of Wisdom! interpose.

Now no more in tuneful motion

Life with love and duty glides; Reason's meteor-lighted ocean

Bears us down its mazy tides; Head is clear and hand is strong,

But our heart no haven knows; Sun of Truth! the night is long,Let thy radiance interpose.

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