NO MORE.

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,

To waste the untold riches of the heart

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No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love1-and never quench that thirst, To pour the soul out, winning no return,

O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed—

No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead;
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen
Intensely questioning for treasures fled-

No more!

Words of triumphant music-bear we on
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn in joy;-to struggle, to despair-

No more!

"Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j'aime," was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël's.

VOL. VI. -15

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend
That will not fail me in his love and worth,
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I loved the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th' unchanging One, my heart!

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PASSING AWAY.

"Passing away" is written on the world, and all the world contains.

It is written on the rose,

In its glory's full array

Read what those buds disclose

"Passing away."

It is written on the skies

Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's dyes-

"Passing away."

PASSING AWAY.

It is written on the trees,

As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these —

"Passing away."

It is written on the brow

Where the spirit's ardent ray

Lives, burns, and triumphs now—

"Passing away."

It is written on the heart

Alas! that there Decay

Should claim from Love a part—

"Passing away."

Friends, friends!-oh! shall we meet

In a land of purer day,

Where lovely things and sweet

Pass not away?

Shall we know each other's eyes,
And the thoughts that in them lay,

When we mingled sympathies—

Oh! if this may be so,

Speed, speed, thou closing day!

How blest, from earth's vain show

To pass away!

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THOU that hast loved so long and well
The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,

Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,

The scythe upon the mead:

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,

There steals a step which mortals fear.

'This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled Death's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric Watts.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;

'Tis not the bittern by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is fill'd with summer's breath,

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The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death!

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour,

By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

“Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!

I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!