VI.

I love to hear o'er echoing dales
The close air thunder-riven,

I love to hear the roaring gales
That lift vast seas to heaven.

VII.

All nature's sights and sounds command
My soul's quick sympathy,

The soft, the mystic, and the grand,
Have each a charm for me.

VIII.

And yet I never saw the scene,
The sound I never heard,
So fair as WOMAN's face serene,
So sweet as WOMAN's word!

IX.

If prison walls shut out the sky,
Yet bade not her depart,
I'd see a sun in WOMAN's eye,

An Eden in her heart.*

These verses are little more than another version of the leading

thought in the Sonnet on page 347. who objected to the Sonnet form.

They were written to please a friend,

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID HARE.*

[TO BE RECITED BY A HINDU.]

O'ER the vast waste of waters-from a land
Small but renowned—a proud undaunted band,
Stirred with the thirst of conquest and of gold,
Came-traded triumphed! History never told
Of monarch-merchants-heroes wandering far-
A stranger tale of traffic or of war.

But can the busy mart, the battle field
The dearest wealth-the brightest triumph yield?
Ah no! e'en now our generous rulers claim

A prouder guerdon and a purer fame.

Though gold was gained and martial glory won,
They knew their noblest task was not begun.
They held our lands, but could not hold our hearts,
Till, changing force for kindness, arms for arts,
They proffered the rich wisdom of the West,
And poorest minds with priceless treasures blest!

In this divinest duty many a heart,

With holy zeal, hath well sustained its part-
All these our guides-an honor to their land-
To our's a blessing-grateful love command;
But in the glorious list, beyond compare,
In types of light, behold the name of HARE!

Ah, warm philanthropist! ah, faithful friend!
Thy life devoted to one generous end-
To bless the Hindu mind with British lore
And truth's and nature's faded lights restore-

• Written at the request of several Native gentlemen.

If for a day that lofty aim was crost,
You grieved, like Titus, that a day was lost.
Alas! it is not now a few brief hours
That fate withholds-a heavier grief o'erpowers
A nation whom you loved as if your own—
A life that gave the life of life is gone!

Yet oh! my countrymen, why weep in vain?
If aught may cause an earth-freed spirit pain,
'Tis when it sees in fond hearts left below
An unresigned and unavailing woe.

Be sighs above the grave breathed forth no more,
The gods are deaf when men the past deplore,
But let a friend's true merit best be proved

By imitative zeal in acts he loved.

His memory thus with loftiest lessons rife

May well complete the purpose of his life,

And while our Hindu youth Mind's blessings share
They'll learn to venerate the name of HARE!

SONNET.

THIS world is beautiful! Oh, dearest friend,

Its glory pass not with regardless eye ;

Green fields, bright streams, deep vales, and mountains high, Rainbows that o'er the wide blue ocean bend

Their many-colored arch, the stars that send

Their mystic light through countless leagues of air

Are they not all unutterably fair?

Can art's proud triumphs e'er with these contend?

You gaze on palaces and crowns, and own
Such baubles please. You bow to mortal kings,
Forgetful of their King, whose glorious throne
Mocks man's conception. Alas! earthly things,
Save those suggesting nobler, leave their stings
In the sad heart when youth and hope are flown!

STANZAS

TO A LADY SINGING.

I.

I CLOSE my willing eyes, but not to sleep-
The world is all shut out, but 'tis not night—
Though tears unbidden start, I do not weep—
My soul is rapt in visions of delight.

II.

Thy voice is like the music of a dream,

And dream-like is its power. That silver spell
Enthrals the heart with happiness supreme,
With thoughts too sweet for mortal tongue to tell.

III.

O, gifted lady! O, enchantress fair!

O, honied lip! what witcheries are thine!
The soul of music breathes upon
the air,
And works a wondrous miracle divine!

IV.

'Tis sunrise upon Eden! What a burst
Of light and beauty, glorious as of yore!
The land a lovely woman lost us first
One of her loveliest daughters can restore.

"A MISERABLE SCENE."

THE silver clash of fountains,
In shady vallies heard-

The sheep-bell on the mountains-
The song of matin bird-

The glassy feet of Ocean

In the white cliff's pebbled cave—

The fluttering sweet commotion
When winds the green wood wave-
The sound of rushing rivers-

The murmur of small rills,
Soft as the voice that quivers

When tears the glad eye fills-
Loud trumpets from high towers-

And lutes on sleeping lakes

Love's whisper in close bowers

Joy's laugh in sunny brakes-
A proud young mother singing
To please her playful child-
Shrill shouts o'er green hills ringing
Of boys with rapture wild,-

O, musical contradictions
Of Discontent and Spleen,
Of the Bigot's gloomy fictions
Of" a miserable scene!"