CCXXX.

THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE.

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal-
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
'Thanks be to heaven!' in happy mood I said,
'What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! we are not free

To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;

His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms; And, at prime hour, behold! He follows me With golden shadows to my secret rooms !'

CCXXXI.

THE BUOY-BELL,

How like the leper, with his own sad cry
Enforcing its own solitude, it tolls!
That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals,
To warn us from the place of jeopardy!
O friend of man! sore-vexed by Ocean's power,
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by day;
Thy trembling mouth is filled with bitter spray,
Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour;
High is thy mission, though thy lot is wild-
To be in danger's realm a guardian sound;

In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear, And earn their blessing as the year goes round;

And strike the key-note of each grateful prayer, Breathed in their distant homes by wife or child.

CCXXXII.

ON STARTLING SOME PIGEONS.

A HUNDRED Wings are dropt as soft as one
Now ye are lighted-lovely to my sight
The fearful circle of your gentle flight,
Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon ;
And then the sober chiding of your tone
As there ye sit from your own roof arraigning
My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done,
Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!
O happy happy race! for tho' there clings
A feeble fear about your timid clan,

Yet ye are blest! with not a thought that brings
Disquietude, while proud and sorrowing man,
An eagle, weary of his mighty wings,
With anxious inquest fills his little span.

CCXXXIII.

THE OCEAN.

THE Ocean at the bidding of the moon
For ever changes with his restless tide;
Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon
With kingly pauses of reluctant pride

And semblance of retur: Anon-from home
He issues forth anew, h.gh ridg'd and free-
The gentlest murmur of his seething foam
Like armies whispering where great echoes be!
O leave me here upon this beach to rove,

Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone-
A glorious sound, deep drawn and strongly thrown,
And reaching those on mountain heights above,
To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own?)
A tutelar fond voice, a saviour-tone of Love!

CCXXXIV.

THE LAKE.

O LAKE of sylvan shore, when gentle Spring
Slopes down upon thee from the mountain side,
When birds begin to build and brood and sing,
Or in maturer season, when the pied

And fragrant turf is thronged with blossoms rare-
In the frore sweetness of the breathing morn,
When the loud pealing of the huntsman's horn
Doth sally forth upon the silent air

Of thy thick forestry, may I be there,
While the wood waits to see its phantom born
At clearing twilight in thy glassy breast,
Or when cool eve is busy on thy shores
With trails of purple shadow from the west,
Or dusking in the wake of tardy oars.