He laid us as we lay at birth

On the cool flowery lap of earth;

Smiles broke from us and we had ease.

The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again :

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd: for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely-furl'd,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah, since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force: But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power?

Others will teach us how to dare,

And against fear our breast to steel:

Others will strengthen us to bear

But who, ah who, will make us feel?

The cloud of mortal destiny,

Others will front it fearlessly

But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his

grave,

O Rotha! with thy living wave.
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

REVOLUTIONS.

BEFORE Man parted for this earthly strand, While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, God put a heap of letters in his hand,

And bade him make with them what word he could.

And Man has turn'd them many times: made

Greece,

Rome, England, France :-yes, nor in vain essay'd Way after way, changes that never cease.

The letters have combin'd: something was made.

But ah, an inextinguishable sense

Haunts him that he has not made what he should. That he has still, though old, to recommence,

Since he has not yet found the word God would.

And Empire after Empire, at their height Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on. Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne.

One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear The word, the order, which God meant should be. Ah, we shall know that well when it comes near: The band will quit Man's heart :--he will breathe free.

THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST.

TO CRITIAS.

WHY, when the World's great mind

Hath finally inclin'd,

Why, you say, Critias, be debating still?
Why, with these mournful rhymes

Learn'd in more languid climes,

Blame our activity,

Who, with such passionate will,

Are, what we mean to be?

Critias, long since, I know,

(For Fate decreed it so)

Long since the World hath set its heart to live.

Long since with credulous zeal

It turns Life's mighty wheel.

Still doth for labourers send,