Mr. FABER is a young clergyman of the established church, and is the author of The Cherwell Water-Lily and other Poems, published in 1840, and Sir Launcelot, in

KING'S BRIDGE.

THE dew falls fast, and the night is dark,
And the trees stand silent in the park ;
And winter passeth from bough to bough,
With stealthy foot that none may know;
But little the old man thinks he weaves
His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves.

From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,

And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town.

Old trees by night are like men in thought,
By poetry to silence wrought;
They stand so still and they look so wise,
With folded arms and half-shut eyes,
More shadowy than the shade they cast
When the wan moonlight on the river past.
The river is green, and runneth slow-
We cannot tell what it saith;

It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death!

Oh! the night is dark; but not so dark
As my poor soul in this lonely park:
There are festal lights by the stream, that fall,
Like stars, from the casements of yonder hall
But harshly the sounds of joyaunce grate
On one that is crush'd and desolate.

From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river droppeth down,

As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town.

O Mary! Mary! could I but hear
What this river saith in night's still ear,
And catch the faint whispering voice it brings
From its lowlands green and its reedy springs:
It might tell of the spot where the graybeard's spade
Turn'd the cold wet earth in the lime-tree shade.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith:

It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death!

For death was born in thy blood with life-
Too holy a fount for such sad strife:
Like a secret curse from hour to hour
The canker grew with the growing flower;
And little we deem'd that rosy streak
Was the tyrant's seal on thy virgin cheek.

the summer of 1844. His style is simple and poetical, and his productions are generally serious in sentiment and earnest in thought.

From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river droppeth down,

As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew, And redder and redder that rosy hue; And the half-shed tears that never fell, And the pain within thou wouldst not tell, And the wild, wan smile,-all spoke of death, That had wither'd my chosen with his breath. The river is green, and runneth slowWe cannot tell what it saith:

It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death!

"Twas o'er thy harp, one day in June,
I marvell'd the strings were out of tune;
But lighter and quicker the music grew,
And deadly white was thy rosy hue;
One moment-and back the colour came,
Thou calledst me by my Christian name.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,

As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.

Thou badest me be silent and bold,

But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold.
I never wept, and I never spake,

But stood like a rock where the salt seas break;
And to this day I have shed no tear
O'er my blighted love and my chosen's bier.
The river is green, and runneth slow-
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!

I stood in the church with burning brow,
The lips of the priest moved solemn and slow.
I noted each pause, and counted each swell,
As a sentry numbers a minute-bell;
For unto the mourner's heart they call
From the deeps of that wondrous ritual.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,

As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
My spirit was lost in a mystic scene,
Where the sun and moon in silvery sheen
Were belted with stars on emerald wings,
And fishes and beasts, and all fleshly things,

And the spheres did whirl with laughter and mirth Round the grave forefather of the earth.

The river is green, and runneth slowWe cannot tell what it saith:

It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death!

The dew falls fast, and the night is dark;
The trees stand silent in the park.
The festal lights have all died out,
And naught is heard but a lone owl's shout.
The mists keep gathering more and more;
But the stream is silent as before.

From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,

As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Why should I think of my boyhood's bride As I walk by this low-voiced river's side? And why should its heartless waters seem Like a horrid thought in a feverish dream? But it will not speak; and it keeps in its bed The words that are sent us from the dead. The river is green, and runneth slowWe cannot tell what it saith; It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death!

CHILDHOOD.

TO MY ONLY SISTER.

Dost thou remember how we lived at homeThat it was like an oriental place, [come Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did By ways we wonder'd at and durst not trace; And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown From griefs that were our sire's and not our own? It was a moat about our souls, an arm

Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore; And we were too enamour'd of the charm

To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er. Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there.

We had traditions of our own, to weave

A web of creed and rite and sacred thought; And when a stranger, who did not believe

As they who were our types of God had taught, Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem Like sounds that mar, but cannot break a dream. And then in Scripture some high things there were, Of which, they said, we must not read or talk; And we, through fear, did never trespass there,

But made our Bibles like our twilight walk In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam To spots from whence we could not see our home. Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men,

To learn the lore our parents loved so well, And read the rites and symbols which were then But letters of a word we could not spellChurch-bells, and Sundays when we did not play, And sacraments at which we might not stay.

But we too soon from our safe place were driven; The world broke in upon our orphan'd life. Dawnings of good, young flowers that look'd to

Heaven,

It left untill'd for what seem'd manlier strife; Like a too early summer, bringing fruit Where spring perchance had meant another shoot! Some begin life too soon,-like sailors thrown

Upon a shore where common things look strange! Like them they roam about a foreign town,

And grief awhile may own the force of change. Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may please,

Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease. Come then unto our childhood's wreck again

The rocks hard by our father's early grave; And take the few chance treasures that remain,

And live through manhood upon what we save. So shall we roam the same old shore at will! In the fond faith that we are children still. Christian thy dream is now-it was not then:

Oh! it were strange if childhood were a dream. Strife and the world are dreams: to wakeful men

Childhood and home as jealous angels seem: Like shapes and hues that play in clouds at even, They have but shifted from thee into heaven!

THE GLIMPSE.

OUR many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought,
They go out from us, thronging every hour;
And in them all is folded up a power
That on the earth doth move them to and fro:
And mighty are the marvels they have wrought

In hearts we know not, and may never know. Our actions travel and are veil'd: and yet

We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one, When out of sight its march hath well-nigh gone; An unveil'd thing which we can ne'er forget! All sins it gathers up into its course, And they do grow with it, and are its force: One day, with dizzy speed that thing shall come, Recoiling on the heart that was its home.

THE PERPLEXITY.

AND, therefore, when I look into my heart,

And see how full it is of mighty schemes, Some that shall ripen, some be ever dreams, And yet, though dreams, shall act a real part: When I behold of what and how great things I am the cause; how quick the living springs That vibrate in me, and how far they go,Thought doth but seem another name for fear; And I would fain sit still and never rise To meddle with myself,-God feels so near. And, all the time, he moveth, calm and slow

And unperplex'd, though naked to His eyes A thousand thousand spirits pictured are, Kenn'd through the shroud that wraps the heaven of heavens afar!

TO A LITTLE BOY.

DEAR little one! and can thy mother find
In those soft lineaments, that move so free
To smiles or tears, as holiest infancy
About thy heart its glorious web doth wind,
A faithful likeness of my sterner mind?

Ah! then there must be times, unknown to me,
When my lost boyhood, like a wandering air,
Comes for a while to pass upon my face,
Giving me back the dear familiar grace
O'er which my mother pour'd her last fond prayer.
But sin and age will rob me of this power;

Though now my heart, like an uneasy lake, Some broken images, at times, may take From forms which fade more sadly every hour!

THE AFTER-STATE.

A SPIRIT came upon me in the night;

And led me gently down a rocky stair, Unto a peopled garden, green and fair, Where all the day there was an evening light. Trees out of every nation blended there;

The citron shrub its golden fruit did train Against an English elm.-'Twas like a dream, Because there was no wind; and things did seem All near and big-like mountains before rain. Far in those twilight bowers, beside a stream, The soul of one who had but lately died Hung listening, with a brother at his side: And no one spoke in all that haunted place,But looked quietly into each other's face!

THE WHEELS.

THERE are strange, solemn times when serious men Sink out of depth in their own spirit, caught All unawares, and held by some strong thought That comes to them, they know not how or when,

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And bears them down through many a winding cell,
Where the soul's busy agents darkly dwell;
Each watching by his wheel, that, bright and bare,
Revolveth day and night, to do its part

In building up for heaven one single heart.
And moulds of curious form are scatter'd there,
As yet unused, the shapes of after deeds:
And veiled growths and thickly sprouting seeds
Are strewn, in which our future life doth lie,
Sketch'd out in dim and wondrous prophecy.

THE SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
THE days of old were days of might
In forms of greatness moulded,
And flowers of heaven grew on the earth,
Within the church unfolded;

For grace fell fast as summer dew,
And saints to giant stature grew.

But, one by one, the gifts are gone
That in the church resided,
And gone the spirit's living light
That on her walls abided,
When by our shrines He came to dwell
In power and presence visible.

A blight hath past upon the church,
Her summer hath departed,
The chill of age is on her sons,

The cold and fearful-hearted: And sad, amid neglect and scorn, Our mother sits and weeps forlorn.

Narrow and narrower still each year
The holy circle groweth,
And what the end of all shall be
No man nor angel knoweth:
And so we wait and watch in fear;
It may be that the Lord is near!