Taper spire, and browning belfry
Climbing, clasp the upper air;
Far-seen stacks of grimy chimneys,
Rolls of smoke, and jets of steam
Crowd upon my sweeping vision,
Stud the current of my dream.
And afar, where mid the ether
Glows a white translucid mist,
Where the scene is distance-softened,
Summer-shot, and silver-kissed,
Glamour-wrapt, as wraiths of wonder
Hover round old fairy tales,

In a wild serrated sky-line,

Rise the frontier rocks of Wales; And around them, vaguely blended,

Vapoury hues are grouped and piled; And above them, cloud-wreath curtains, Protean-gleamed, are looped and coiled. Radiant is the vasty vision,

Sunset-lit, or dawn, or noon;

Thrilling! 'neath the sleepless vigil
Of a white September moon,

Other forms and other features

Rise before me, pause, retire; Stately forms endued with manhood, Noble son and generous sire; Budding children, blooming matrons, Mother-faces calm with care;

Forms with coils of woman-glory

Circling foreheads passing fair!

And the thrill of music haunts me Like the thoughts of master-minds, And a tender voice a-singing

Sweet and low as autumn winds.
Ah! but not the gorgeous landscape
'Neath the still cerulean sky;
Not the shapes of grace and beauty,
Though a sweetness and a joy;
Not the music, not the singing,
Revelations though they be,
Strike the deepest chords within me,
On the harp of memory:

But the strings that throb the sweetest,
And the bonds that closest twine,
Are the hands that came to clasp me,
Are the eyes that glowed in mine;
Are the lips that bade me welcome;
Feet that came at sorrow's call;
Are the hearts that rose to love me,
Though a stranger to them all!

Oh! 'tis sweet to feel the twinings
Of a fond solicitude,

Stand amid the charmèd circle
Of a noble brotherhood!
And I tell you, ye who loved me,
Tell you now, and once for all—
Though the winds of sorrow wither,
Fortune deal her bitterest gall,
Though deserted, scorned, forgotten,
Evermore the memory

Of your kindness-never-fading-
Will come back to gladden me.

Heaven bless you! God, I thank Thee
That, although of much bereft,
Much-so much-of beauty, blessing,

Joy, and tenderness is left!

JCARUS; OR, THE

SINGER'S TALE

፡፡

|O-DAY, our obituary readers will find

A name-Thomas String-not unknown to his kind,

And 'twill be remembered, we doubt not, by those Who've read us through twenty long summers and snows,

That some of his rude, plaintive snatches of rhyme Appeared, years ago, in our "nook for the muse,"

And excited no little surprise at the time,

As far as we know he was born in the west,
Of poor, toiling folk, in a tenement mean,
Whose shelter he left, in a mood of unrest,

Whilst still very young, for the world he'd not seen.
He wandered afar in most pitiful plight,

And earned a scant living in various ways;

Won food for the raw, hungry stomach by light,
Sought food for the soul from his books in the night,
Gained knowledge of life in its stubbornest phase,
He published, it may be a decade ago,

A volume of scraps, with indifferent success,

Which brought him the semblance of fame-but a show— Which faded, and left him more bitter and low, Proportioned to the height of his sudden access,

Not much of his subsequent path can we trace;

But few in the districts he haunted have known him; He passed like a cloud-shadow o'er the earth's face;

He had not a friend, at least none that would own him. A character changeful, erratic as wind,

And strangely anomalous e'en for his kind,

Wild, sensitive, bitter, exulting, and grieving.

We think that no person of taste is so blind

As to read his rough scraps without talent perceiving.

A lover of Nature, akin to her moods;

A power-spirit chained to a spirit that broods;

A wide scope of vision, a child-like simplicity,
E'en such was the man that among us has passed,
So thoroughly human, unnoticed for years;

Gone home to his grave! and the proud world that cast
But hardly a crust to him, reapeth no tears.

Much genius he had, which we deem might have shone—
Chaste powers, which we feel might have raised him to

fame

Had fate been propitious; had fortune but thrown
One ray of her star in the scale of his claim."

(From the "LYNX" a month afterwards).

"We are glad to inform our subscribers to-day
That Sir Hodge Poyson, Baronet, writes us to say
That seeing our notice, a short time ago,

Of the life of poor String, and his troubles and knell,
Deeply pained and amazed, he determined to go
To the scene of the conflict, to earth out and know
The deep yearnings and sorrows, and all that befell
The true Bard of the Sad,' and his merits as well.