III.

Our life may not be all a dream of love,
Else were this cold and barren earth too blest;
But we, poor pilgrims of a day, must prove
The conflict-bind the armour to our breast,
And struggle on, with eye still fix'd above,
Through the dark passage to our bower of rest,—
Though love, and hope, and all but life be gone,
We
may not pause and weep-but still fight on!

IV.

Thou wilt, I trust, find other hearts to bless,
And other verdant spots in life's dull waste,
And if my years roll on in loneliness,
Still I must tarry where my lot is cast,-
A martyr-task perchance-but not the less
Will I fulfil it-it must end at last,

And I will strive on other hearts to pour
The gifts of gladness mine may know no more!
I am but what I was before we met-

Belov'd by some because my face is fair,
Because my brow throbs 'neath a coronet,
Because my brother is Ferrara's heir,—
But still in solitude I must forget

That one has known my inmost thoughts to share :

I must return amid the reckless throng,

To the deep silence I have nurs'd so long.

V.

And Fare thee well!-thou crown'd with song,

Farewell!

Fly forth in joy to some far isle of bliss;

There may some bright one with her fairy spell
Call forth sweet dreams to soothe thy loneliness:
Be she to thee more, more than tongue can tell,
Or thought can breathe—I have no hope but this,—
May all her life be consecrate to thee,

And may she love, O Tasso, love like me!

VI.

I never told thee this before, but now

I deem'd it might console thee on thy way
Of exile and of weariness, to know

One heart at least has caught the fervid ray
Of inspiration from thy kindled brow-
But what avails it now? the dream is past,
And that cold word, Farewell, must come at last.

VII.

I will not murmur-I have learn'd from thee

High thoughts and holy strength unknown before;

And after this one hour thy name shall be
A lure to lead me from life's path no more-

To labour on-to suffer silently

Such be the portion of thy Leonor!

And bliss be thine, if bliss on earth can dwell,
Untold, unspeakable; Farewell, Farewell!

E. S. R. P.

THE JOYS OF SLEEP.

BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.

SLEEP, peerless wizard! thou canst raise The lov'd ones death has torn away, Companions of my early days,

Now mouldering into clay :

At memory's call, in waking hours,
Oft indistinct they meet my eyes;
But, at thy bidding, in my dreams,
How beautiful they rise!

O, then the freshness of the heart
Falls o'er me, like a gentle rain;

I feel, I feel the ecstasy

Of vanish'd youth again!

Beside our own romantic stream,

Where pale-green birches quivering play,

With William and with Caroline

Again I seem to stray.

All glowing with the hues of youth,
Again they come to charm my sight;
On the soft roses of their cheeks

The grave has left no blight:

Their arms are fondly link'd in mine,

Their sparkling eyes are turn'd on me,
Their voices mingle in mine ear,

A thrilling melody!

O'er rocks we climb, through dells we rove,
Where giant boughs their shadows fling,
And gather many-colour'd flowers,
The starry race of spring :

And seeking now the river's verge,
Upon the mossy turf we lie,

The birches waving o'er our heads,
A rustling canopy;

And pleas'd we mark those slender trees,
When rudely by the breezes prest,

Dip their long tresses in the stream,
And break its crystal rest:

Near us the wild-bee plies her task,
Within the nodding foxglove's bell:
How soothing is her fiery song's
Oft-interrupted swell!

But, sleep, thou fliest, and I awake
To sorrow from a lovely dream;
And now but wintry winds I hear,

And view but morn's white gleam.

BACHELORS.

As lone clouds in autumn eves,

As a tree without its leaves,

As a shirt without its sleeves,

Such are bachelors.

As syllabubs without a head,

As jokes not laugh'd at when they're said,

As cucumbers without a bed,

Such are bachelors.

As creatures of another sphere,

As things that have no business here,
As inconsistencies, 'tis clear,

Such are bachelors.

When lo, as souls in fabled bowers,
As beings born for happier hours,
As butterflies on favour'd flowers,

Such are married men.

These perform their functions high;

They bear their fruit, and then they die,
And little sprouts come by and by,

So die married men.