RICHARD CHENEVIX, ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

119

VESUVIUS.

S when unto a mother, having chid

Her child in anger, there have straight ensued
Repentings for her quick and angry mood,

That she would fain see all its traces hid

Quite out of sight,—even so has Nature bid

Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed,

To blossom; and called up the taller wood

To cover what she ruined and undid.

Oh! and her mood of anger did not last

More than an instant; but her work of peace,
Restoring and repairing, comforting

The earth her stricken child, will never cease:
For that was her strange work, and quickly past;

To this, her genial toil, no end the years shall bring.

WRETCHED thing it were to have our heart
Like a broad highway or a populous street,

Where every idle thought has leave to meet,

Pause or pass on as in an open mart;

Or like some road-side pool, which no nice art
Has guarded that the cattle may not beat
And foul it with a multitude of feet,
Till of the heavens it can give back no part.

But keep thou thine a holy solitude,

For He who would walk there would walk alone; He who would drink there must be first endued

With single right to call that stream his own; Keep thou thine heart close fastened, unrevealed, A fenced garden and a fountain sealed.

THE OCEAN.

HE Ocean at the bidding of the Moon,

For ever changes with his restless tide;

Hung shoreward now, to be regathered soon

With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,

And semblance of return.

Anon from home

He issues forth again, high-ridged and free, The seething hiss of his tumultuous foam

Like armies whispering where great echoes be! Oh, leave me here upon this beach to rove,

Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone— A glorious sound, deep-drawn and strongly thrown, And reaching those on mountain heights above; To British ears, as who shall scorn to own, A tutelar fond voice, a saviour-tone of love.

Q

THE BUOY-BELL.

OW like the leper, with his own sad cry
Enforcing his own solitude, it tolls!

That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals,
To warn us from the place of jeopardy!
O friend of man! sore-vexed by Ocean's power,
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by day;
Thy trembling mouth is filled with bitter spray,
Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour;
High is thy mission, though thy lot is wild-
To be in danger's realm a guardian sound;

In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear, And earn their blessing as the year goes round; And strike the key-note of each grateful prayer, Breathed in their distant homes by wife or child.

THE PRISONER,

IS was a chamber in the topmost tower-
A small unsightly cell with grated bars;
And wearily went on each irksome hour
Of dim captivity and moody cares;
Against such visitants he was not strong,
But sat with laden heart and brow of woe;
And every morn he heard the stir and song
Of birds in royal gardens far below,
Telling of bowers and dewy lawns unseen,

Drenched with the silver stream that night had shed, Part blossom-white, part exquisitely green,

By little warblers roamed and tenanted, Blending their glad wild notes to greet the sheen

Of the May Dawn, that gleamed upon his bed.