While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let Ocean roll,

ROSALIE

"O POUR upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain,

That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star

Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies!

"No, never came from aught below This melody of woe,

That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light, if light it be,
That veils the 'world I see.

"For all I see around me wears

The hue of other spheres; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath Can mould a sadness like to this,

So like angelic bliss."

So, at that dreamy hour of day,

-

When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play, So thought the gentle Rosalie, As on her maiden reverie First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul.

ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE

AND thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend!

No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend
With air of Earth its pure ideal tones,
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones,
The heart and intellect. And I no more
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed
deep,
The Human Soul,
the shore,

as when, pushed off

Yet still from either beach