Though blank the range of place and fact To hearts that only rise and fall,

God and the Poet can extract

Beauty and Truth from each and all.

THE DEATH OF DAY.

WRITTEN ON THE RHINE.

FULL of hours, the Day is falling Where its brethren lie,

A stern and royal voice is calling The beautiful to die.

The banners of the west
A splendid breadth unfold,-

Their glory be unblest!

There is blood upon the gold.

Great Time, how canst thou slay,

With such a funeral state,

The gay and gentle Day,

Whom none could fear or hate?

Oh! mark him on his bed,
How flushed his quiet cheek,
How lowly droops his head,
And
eyes that more than speak.

Let not the giddy breeze
Make sport of his last moans ;
Weave them, ye aged trees!
Into Æolian tones.

The hills, in clear outline, Against the blanching sky, Stand forth, nor seem to pine For the joy that is passing by,

But solemnly and boldly
They bid a sad farewell,
Nor feel the pain more coldly
They are too proud to tell.

Yet leaves and blossoms pray One deep and constant prayer: "Take him not all away,

That made us seem so fair;

Say not, that, in its turn,

'T is pleasant to behold The lamp of darkness burn Light-amber or red-gold;

"Praise not the coming night,
Its damp and sallow ray,
We would not call it bright,
Tho' it came not after Day.

"We have wept when Day was sighing,—

His gloom has made us mourn,——

And now our love is dying,

What care we for the born?"

ON A RUINED CASTLE,

NEAR THE RHINE.

THIS was a fortress, firm and stout,
When there was battling round about,-
It has been decked in gala-plight,
In days of ladie-love and knight,-
It has known carouse and Provençal song,
And the dance right featly tript along,
While the red yuhl-log and wassail bowl
Cheered the pilgrim's thirsty soul.
The swoop of Time has been to it
A bounty and a benefit,-

It has gained glory from those wings,
Which have annihilated Kings;

And now it stands in its massiveness,
Wi' the scars of many an age,
Like a lore-encumbered prophetess,
Who has worn away her youthfulness,
In studies deep and sage.

ON THE JUNGFRAU BY MOONLIGHT.

THE maiden moon is resting the maiden mount above, They gaze upon each other with cold majestic love.

So I and Thou, sweet Sister! upon each other gaze; Our love was warm, but sorrow has tempered its fine rays.

As in the hazy heaven that gentle orb appears,
Thou lookest in my face tearful--not shedding tears.

Like thine her face is pale, but from within a light
Mild-gleaming as thy spirit, still glorifies the night,

And casts a tender sheen on that pale hill beneath,
Pale as my heart which wears the shroud of early Death.