HUNTSPILL TOWER.

JOVE beyond cove, in faint and fainter line
I trace the winding shore, and dream I hear

The distant billows where they break and shine
Around us, far and near,

On the dark isles.

The bright gay breeze is sweeping cheerily,
Chequering the green moor, like the summer field
Of ocean, with the shadows of the sky.

In all their graceful majesty revealed,
Now purple-shaded, now in playful light,

To south and north the glorious hills are seen;
Where hovering fancy may at will alight

By pastoral dingle, or deep rocky screen.

Such airs, light sallies of thy cheerful heart,
A living joy, dear friend, to all impart.

OXFORD.

(FROM BAGLEY, AT 8 A.M.)

HE flood is round thee, but thy towers as yet
Are safe, and clear as by a summer's sea

Pierce the calm morning mist, serene and free,
To point in silence heavenward. There are met
Thy foster-children;-there in order set

Their nursing-fathers, sworn to Heaven and thee

(An oath renewed this hour on bended knee,) Ne'er to betray their Mother nor forget.— Lo! on the top of each aerial spire

What seems a star by day, so high and bright,

It quivers from afar in golden light :

But 'tis a form of earth, though touched with fire
Celestial, raised in other days to tell

How, when they tired of prayer, Apostles fell.

AT HOOKER'S TOMB.

HE grey-eyed Morn was saddened with a shower,
A silent shower, that trickled down so still
Scarce drooped beneath its weight the tenderest
flower,

Scarce could you trace it on the twinkling rill,
Or moss-stone bathed in dew. It was an hour
Most meet for prayer beside thy lowly grave,

Most for thanksgiving meet, that Heaven such power
To thy serene and humble spirit gave.

'Who sow good seed with tears shall reap in joy.'

So thought I as I watched the gracious rain,
And deemed it like that silent sad employ

Whence sprung thy glory's harvest, to remain
For ever. God hath sworn to lift on high
Who sinks himself by true humility.

THE THRUSH'S NEST.

ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a molehill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and, often an intruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day,-
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted-over, shells of greeny blue ;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

HITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?
What solemn region first upon thy sight

Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight?—

What hosts, magnificent in dread array,

My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay,

After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest !

The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest,
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed,
A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
Thou art that bird!-of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untracked immeasurable skies,
Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy Guide.