WINGS. To make the spirit mount again That time has bowed, and grief, and pain! It may not oh, it may not be! I cannot soar on fancy's wing, And hope has been,-like thee, like thee! These many weary years, to me, A lost and perished thing! Are there no pinions left, to bear Yes!-rise upon the morning's wing," There is a home for thee !— Away-away-and lay thy head In the low valley of the dead! Is it some vision of the elder day, Won from the dead-sea waters, by a spell Like her's who waked the prophet ? -or a dream Of burning Egypt,―ere the Lybian sand Had flung its pall above a perished world, Dreamt on its dreary grave, that has no flowers? -It is the eastern orphan's ocean-home!— The southern queen!-the city of the sea, 62 CARTHAGE. Ere Venice was a name !—the lofty heart That battled for the empire of the world, And all but won,-yet perished in the strife! And bound the wild deer, where the severing boughs She wakes the perfumes of the Tyrian's groves, Alas! the stately city !—is it here, Here, 'mid this palace pomp and leafy store, (Bright as some landscape which the poet sees Painted, by sunset, on a summer sky, In hues the dolphin borrows, when he dies!) 'Mid all this clustering loveliness and life, Where treads the Trojan,-that, in after-years, A lonelier exile and a loftier chief Sat amid ruins! I THINK ON THEE, IN THE NIGHT. There is lyf withoute ony deth, And there is youthe withoute ony elde, RICHARD ROLLE. I THINK on thee, in the night, When all beside is still, And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light, To sit on the lonely hill! When the stars are all like dreams, And the breezes all like sighs, |