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 The stars look down on human joy or ill; All beauteously the Night pursues her way, IV. To musing Fancy, Walmer's lonely pile 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, 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 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; Than this English sky with its islets white, |