In vain-in vain! Thou canst not rise :
Thy prison roof confines thee there ;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And, far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.

Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou mightst forget thy native wood.

But thou, poor solitary dove,

Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart, that Nature formed to love,
Must pine, neglected, and alone.

ACTON.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow

And Sorrow stands apart,

And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the

power,

To call up thoughts that throw

Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,

And slowly, will not stay;

Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,

Alike the draught of bliss,

Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss.

The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,

And urgent voices, round us, say,
"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"

And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,

And flowers bloomed round our feet,— While many a bud of joy before us Unclosed its petals sweet,―

An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,

From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,

Laboured one faculty,

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,

Its gloom and scarcity;

Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure Extracts a lasting good;

'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure To serve for winter's food.

And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter's stress,

Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life's evening hours will bless.

CURRER.

MY COMFORTER.

WELL hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught
A feeling strange or new;

Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought
To gleam in open view.

Deep down, concealed within my soul,
That light lies hid from men ;

Yet, glows unquenched-though shadows roll,
Its gentle ray cannot control,

About the sullen den.

Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long?

Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue ;—

A brotherhood of misery,

Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony

The bliss before my eyes!

So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun,
And in the glare of Hell;
My spirit drank a mingled tone,
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;
What my soul bore, my soul alone
Within itself may tell!

Like a soft air, above a sea,
Tossed by the tempest's stir;

A thaw-wind, melting quietly
The snow-drift, on some wintry lea;
No: what sweet thing resembles thee,
My thoughtful Comforter?

And yet a little longer speak,
Calm this resentful mood;