THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

"The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create

And multiply in us a brighter ray,

And more beloved existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage."

BYRON.

COME to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!
I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs,

In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought; 'Midst the glad music of the spring alone, And sorrowful for visions that are gone!

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow'd
With life, and love, and many a burning word,

That bursts from grief, like lightning from a cloud,
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.

Come to me! visit my dim haunt!-the sound

Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath; The stock-dove's note above; and all around, The poesy that with the violet's breath

Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. Friends, friends!-for such to my lone heart ye are― Unchanging ones; from whose immortal eyes

The glory melts not as a waning star,

And the sweet kindness never, never dies;

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell! Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending

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In patient grief, "a smiling with a sigh:' And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky; Thou of the soft low voice!-thou art not gone! Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.

And come to me!-sing me thy willow-strain,
Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimm'd, unquenchable affection lies;

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here That well might win thy footstep to the spotPale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier,

And pansies for sad thoughts,2-but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong;
The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining,
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song,

"Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh."

Cymbeline.

"Here's pansies for you—that's for thoughts."

Hamlet.

Thou, making death deep joy!-but could'st thou die? No!-thy young love hath immortality!

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, oh! ye beautiful! 'tis well, how well,
In the soul's world, with you, where change is not,
to dwell!

THE LYRE'S LAMENT.

"A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind-but no human being was to be seen."

A DEEP-TONED lyre hung murmuring
To the wild wind of the sea:

"O melancholy wind," it sigh'd,

"What would thy breath with me?

"Thou can'st not wake the spirit

That in me slumbering lies,

Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire
Of buried melodies.

"Wind of the dark sea-waters!

Thou dost but sweep my strings

Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

Salathiel.

THE LYRE'S LAMENT.

"But the spell-the gift-the lightning—

Within my frame conceal'd,

Must I moulder on the rock away,
With their triumphs unreveal'd?

"I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!

I have sounds that through the ancient hills
Like a torrent's voice might roll.

"I have pealing notes of victory

That might welcome kings from war; I have rich deep tones to send the wail For a hero's death afar.

"I have chords to lift the pæan From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons

When sweeping winds are high.

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"And love-for love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violet's faint farewell:

"Soft-spiritual—mournful—

Sighs in each note enshrined-
But who shall call that sweetness forth?

Thou canst not, ocean-wind!

"I pass without my glory,

Forgotten I decay

Where is the touch to give me life?

-Wild, fitful wind, away!"

So sigh'd the broken music

That in gladness had no partHow like art thou, neglected lyre, To many a human heart!

TASSO'S CORONATION.'

A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest;
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!

A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious
Roman sky,

Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;

There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along,

For again a conqueror must be crown'd-a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers,

Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,

'Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,

To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling

car;

1 Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol.