Amid the dust

The hermit long hath slept,—and every one
That listened to the saint's delightful voice.
In yonder churchyard, near the eastern porch,
Close to the altar-wall, a little mound
As if by Nature shaped, and strewn by her
With every tender flower that sorrow loves,
Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day,
The hind oft hears the legendary tale
Rehearsed by village moralist austere

With many a pious phrase; and not a child,

Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk, But will conduct thee to the hallowed spot

And lisp the hermit's name.

Nor did the cave

That he long time from Nature tenanted
Remain unhonoured.-Duly every spring,
Upon the day he died, thither repaired
Many a pure spirit, to his memory
Chanting a choral hymn, composed by one
Who on his deathbed sat and closed his eyes.
"I am the resurrection and the life,"

Some old man then would, with a solemn voice,
Read from that Bible that so oft had blest
The Hermit's solitude with heavenly cheer.
This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,
Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now
Lies in yon box of undecaying yew,

And may it never fade !—

Stranger unknown!

Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave
Where on the Hermit death most gently fell
Like a long-wished-for slumber. The great Lord,
Whose castle stands amid the music wild
Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens,
In youth by nature taught to venerate
Things truly venerable, hither came
One year to view the fair solemnity:
And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct
The entrance of the cave, or worm defile
The soft green beauty of its mossy walls,
This massive door was from a fallen oak
Shaped rudely; but all other ornament,

That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed,
And outer roof with many a pensile shrub
Most delicate, he with wise feeling left

To Nature, and her patient servant, Time!

Stranger! I know thee not yet since thy feet
Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one
Whose heart doth love in silent communings
To walk with Nature, and from scenes like these
Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul
To high endurance of all earthly pains
Of mind or body; so that thou connect
With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms,
Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace
In moral being. All creation takes
The spirit of its character from him

Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart,
Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld,

Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds,
Embathed in dying sunshine, to the base
Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower

As with avenging thunder.

This sweet glen,

How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks
Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky
Above, and from the world that lies around
All but the faint remembrance, tempted once
To most unnatural murder, once sublimed
To the high temper of the seraphim :
And thus, though its mild character remained
Immutable, with pious dread was shunned
As an unholy spot, or visited

With reverence, as a consecrated shrine.

Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart,
That Nature smiles for ever on the good,-
But that all beauty dies with innocence !"

VOL. XII.

T

LINES

WRITTEN ON READING THE

MEMOIRS OF MISS ELISABETH SMITH.

PEACE to the dead! the voice of Nature cries,
Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies;
Compassion drives each sterner thought away,
And all seem good when mouldering in the clay.
For who amid the dim religious gloom,

The solemn Sabbath brooding o'er the tomb,
The holy stillness that suspends our breath
When the soul rests within the shade of death,
What heart could then withhold the pensive sigh
Reflection pays to poor mortality,
Nor, sunk in pity near allied to love,
E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve!
The headstrong will with innocence at strife,
The restless passions that deformed his life,
Desires that spurned at reason's weak control,
And dimmed the native lustre of the soul,
The look repulsive that like ice repressed

The friendly warmth that played within the breast,
The slighting word, through heedlessness severe,
Wounding the spirit that it ought to cheer,
Lie buried in the grave! or if they live,
Remembrance only wakes them to forgive;
While vice and error steal a soft relief
From the still twilight of a mellowing grief.
And oh how lovely do the tints return
Of every virtue sleeping in the urn!
Each grace that fleeted unobserved away,
Starts into life when those it decked decay;
Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows,
And self-reproach is mingled with our woes.

But nobler sorrows lift the musing mind,
When soaring spirits leave their frames behind,
Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride,
And, like a sunbeam, lightened as they died!
Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile,

And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile:
Then burns our being with a holy mirth
That owns no kindred with this mortal earth;
For hymning angels in blest vision wave

Their wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave!

Oh thou! whose soul, unmoved by earthly strife, Led by the pole-star of eternal life,

Owned no emotion stained by touch of clay,

No thought that angels might not pleased survey;
Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was run
From youth's fair morning to thy setting sun,
Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to roll
O'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul;
Thou! who secure in good works strong to save,
Resigned and happy, eyedst the opening grave,
And in the blooming summer of thy years
Scarce feltst regret to leave this vale of tears;
Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies,
List to my words thus interwove with sighs,
And if the high resolves, the cherished pain
That prompt the weak but reverential strain,
If love of virtue ardent and sincere

Can win to mortal verse a cherub's ear,
Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine,
And make the adoring spirit pure as thine!
When my heart muses o'er the long review
Of all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew,
O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride,
And patience humble though severely tried,
Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined,
A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind,

And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense
Combined with fancy's wild magnificence;
Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan,
I hail with joy the dignity of man,

And soaring high above life's roaring sea,
Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee.

Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birth
Dwell but a moment with the sons of earth;
To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given,
Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven.
The fairest rose in shortest time decays;

The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays;
The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn,
Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn;
Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shrouds
The star that smiles amid the evening clouds;
And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear,
That the soul wishes every sense could hear,
Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet,
As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet.

Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires, And mounts to God exulting to be free From fleshly chain that binds mortality, The world is hallowed by her blest sojourn, And glory dwells for ever round her urn! Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air

That felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer;
Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod,

And there e'en Atheists must believe in God!
Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!
Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave!
The parted soul in God-given strength sublime,
Streams undimmed splendour o'er unmeasured time;
Still on the earth the sainted hues survive,
Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.
In vain the tide of ages strives to roll

A bar to check the intercourse of soul;

The hovering spirits of the good and great

With fond remembrance own their former state,
And musing virtue often can behold

In vision high their plumes of wavy gold,
And drink with trancèd ear the silver sound
Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round.
By death untaught, our range of thought is small,
Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball.
Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears,
Ignobly pent within a few short years;

But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book,
On Heaven's gemmed sphere we lift a joyful look,