And at short intervals the measured beat,

Solemn and slow, of the night-watcher's feet.

III.

These sounds but mark the silence, as pale lights
In deep, wide darkness, show it darker still.
All silently, from out the heavenly heights,

The stars look down on human joy or ill;

All beauteously the Night pursues her way,
And breathes her prayerful thoughts to coming Day.

IV.

To musing Fancy, Walmer's lonely pile
Seems as if conscious of her sacred trust,
She hushed to breathless awer the moaning isle,
Over her Wellington's lamented dust;
Looking far out upon the restless main,
The one sad sentinel of England's pain.

V.

How sad, but yet how beautiful the scene!

"Tis Death that lends the music to the sea; 'Tis that High Presence, solemn and serene, Which robes all Nature with such sympathy; And gives the stars of heaven a voice to tell Things felt, but never known--ineffable.

We

gaze

VI.

and sigh;-but here we cannot weep;

'Tis Reverence and Religion, and meek Faith,

That fill us with emotion, pure and deep,

And waft our heavenward thoughts to Life from

Death,

To Life Eternal: tears we may not shed,

We are alone with Nature and the dead.

VII.

The tears shall fall to-morrow, but not here!— 'Mid pomp and show, and blazonry and pride,

And slow funereal march and gorgeous bier,

The sorrow shall have vent for him who died ;So great, so simple, and so calmly grand

So like the staff and father of the land.

VIII.

But, ah! not here! We can but breathe a prayer,
Awed by the spiritual beauty spread around.
The foremost man of all our time lies there;

The tree has fallen, and sanctifies the ground.

To-morrow,

and to-morrow, tears

may

flow;

But Hope is with the stars, and chides our woe.

November, 1852.

XIX.

PROFESSOR SCHLAFHAUBE, OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF HEIDELBERG.

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE.

LAZILY runs the tide of human life

There is no effort in our German land

Of what avail are ceaseless moil and strife?

Is there not time? Why move, if we can stand? There is no object the wide world can show,

Worth English hurry, sweat, and sore distress; Let the moons wane and wax, and come and go, And let us Germans doze in happiness!

Why should we turn and spin in frantic haste
When we have seventy years to live and dream?
Through cloud and vapour speed is perilous waste,-

Anchor the ship, there's fog upon the stream!

XX.

FALLOW.

ALONE, alone, let me wander alone!

There's an odour of hay o'er the woodlands blown;
There's a humming of bees beneath the lime,
And the deep blue heaven of a Southern clime
Is not more beautifully bright

Than this English sky with its islets white,
And its alp-like clouds, so snowy fair!-
The birch-leaves dangle in balmy air;
And the elms and oaks scarce seem to know
When the whispering breezes come or go;
But the bonnie sweet-briar, she knows well;
For she has kissed them--and they tell!
And bear to all the West and South
The pleasant odours of her mouth.